


my love, leave yourself behind (beat inside me, leave you blind)

by pandizzy



Series: Quints au. [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Don't Even Know, Widling Jon Snow, mixture of book and show canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-04-07 05:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19078612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandizzy/pseuds/pandizzy
Summary: Who ever said raising quintuplets was going to be easy?





	1. Chapter One

_Queen Sansa of House Stark of Winterfell, first of her name, (286-330 A.C.) was a queen in the North, the first in written history to reign in her own right. She was the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and lady Catelyn Stark (born Tully) and the younger sister of Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. After surviving the War of the Five Kings (see more information below) and the mythical War of Dawn, Sansa went on to inherit her half-brother’s vacant throne, becoming the first woman to do so._

_Her three children, Athos, Rodrik, and Eddara, had an unknown father (or fathers, depending on the source.). Sansa herself has claimed that her children were fathered by wolves, an idea certainly inspired by the Mormont women that she met during her lifetime, who all said that same about their own children, though, with them it was bears. Her first son, Athos, looked like his Tully grandmother while Rodrik was said to have been his grandfather come again, with his unwavering honor and dark looks. Eddara, the only girl, however, had silver hair and light violet eyes, an unusual color in the winterfellian court._

* * *

A cardiologist comes to see her in the morning.

He listens to her heart, takes out a vial of blood and checks her pressure, frowning deeper and deeper as he goes. Doctor Wolkan is by his side and they whisper between themselves, discussing her and her babies. They take Jon aside. Her husband crosses his arms as they talk in hushed voices, every once in awhile turning to look at her with a worried expression on his handsome face.

"What's wrong?" she asks, nervous, "Tell me. What is it?"

Jon looks at her once more, before turning back to the doctors, "Are you sure that there's no other way?"

Doctor Wolkan nods, a somber look to him, and Jon sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. Suddenly, he looks ten years older, with worry lines on his forehead and dark inky bags under his eyes.

They turn to her and Jon walks to her side, taking her hand. He rubs his thumb over her knuckles in what she thinks is supposed to be a soothing manner, but it's actually making her feel more anxious. She wants to crawl out of her skin, of her body and take her babies away in a den, where she can care for them until the end.

"Sansa," Doctor Wolkan starts and his voice is sickeningly sweet, almost as if he's talking to a child that needs to hear bad news in a soft way, but Sansa is not a child, not anymore, "We have been keeping a close watch on you, as we do with your children, and for the past couple of days I've noticed a worrying pattern," he pauses, catching his breath, "Your heart is going into overdrive, it can not sustain this pregnancy anymore, not without any risks to your life."

Sansa turns to Jon, who is nodding sadly, and to the cardiologist, who has her chart open, ready to point out any evidence that she might need to believe such a diagnosis.

"Our team has been ready 24/7 since you've been admitted two weeks ago," Wolkan continues, "We will start preparations right now and you'll be taken to a delivery room in less than two hours."

Sansa touches her belly. The babies have been so quiet these past few days, having grown so big that there is almost no space in her uterus for all of them to move, but she can still feel a kick or a hand every once in a while, a proof that they are all right. They are healthy, they don't need to be born. They can't be born. It's too soon.

"No," she says, caressing her stomach.

"No?" Doctor Wolkan and the cardiologist repeat, talking in unison.

"No," Sansa murmurs, raising her eyes to look at them, "I won't do a c-section. Not today, at least."

Jon leans forward, invading her field of vision, "San, I don't think you understand," he says, so nervous that he's shaking, "This pregnancy has become a threat to your survival."

"I don't care!" she answers back, tears reaching her eyes and her voice is heavy, constricted, "I can't deliver today." Sansa turns to doctor Wolkan, to his kind and wrinkled face, and she can't feel anything but despair at the expression he has on, "You've said it yourself. We had to hold on to twenty-eight weeks, that was our goal because the babies have more chances if they are born during the third trimester."

"Sansa, we have the best neonatal specialists in the North here in this hospital," exclaims Wolkan, "Your children have a high chance of survival."

Sansa shakes her head and she swallows the intense urge to put her hands over her ears, "I can't." Tears stream down her face and she sobs, her shoulders shaking. "Please, doctor. Just give me one more week. Just one more. Please. I can do it, I know I can."

Doctor Wolkan has already made up his mind, though, and he shakes his head, "I'm sorry."

He leaves, taking the cardiologist with him, and Sansa is left on the bed, unable to follow them and beg for more time.

When the door hits its way, she buries her face in her hands, sobbing. Gods, she can't deliver. She can't. The babies are not ready, _she_ is not ready. Who cares about her bloody heart when their lives are more important?

Jon hugs her by the shoulders, whispering in her ear.

"Jon, please make them see," Sansa begs, grabbing his arm, "I can't lose them."

Her husband stares at her, gray eyes wide, "And I can't lose _you."_ He sighs, licking his chapped lips. "Sansa, you can not die. Our children need you… I need you. Understand what I'm trying to say. You can't go any further than this, your body will not handle it." He kisses her temple. "You've done more than enough in nurturing them, feeding them, keeping them alive for the past six months, now… Now let the doctors take over."

"I don't want them to be born," she admits, weakly, "They're safe here." Sansa takes his hand and places it over her belly, where the babies kick his palm. Jon sighs, leaning their foreheads together, and he kisses her, tightly pressing his lips against hers.

"While they are there," he murmurs, shaking, "You're not safe. Please, Sansa. I'm begging you. Please have the c-section."

Sansa takes a deep breath and nods.

* * *

They wheel her inside a sterilized white-walled room, with half a hundred people in scrubs awaiting her. Wide-eyed interns, nervous nurses and experienced doctors all seem to bundle together, trying to fit in the tight space for those who are only there to watch, not to expect. _It’s something big,_ Sansa tells herself as a blue-eyed male nurse attaches an IV line to the inside of her wrist, _No set of quintuplets has ever been born alive before in Westeros._

Jon’s not there yet, he needs to change into a pair of scrubs, so Sansa has been left alone, waiting for him and doctor Wolkan to get ready, before they can cut her and pull her babies out, one by one.

“You’re doing a great job breathing,” the cardiologist, doctor Umber, says, sitting by her side. Sansa touches her face, where an oxygen mask is attached by two elastic bands to her ears, and smiles, morphine taking over her entire body. His long face turns to the heart monitor where he carefully watches her heartbeat and blood pressure.

A few minutes pass where nothing happens. A nurse walks out and a new one comes in; two pediatricians check the babies’ heart rate and a third one talks to a group of nurses, attentively instructing them in their task. Each person of use has a tag on their scrub, with one letter from A to E and their role in the delivery, ready to spring into action.

“Here’s dad,” a nurse says, leading Jon to her. He’s wearing blue scrubs and there is a medical cap on his head, plus a white mask to cover his long beard. He sits by her side and smiles, flicking a finger over her eyebrow.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmurs, laying his arm on the open space behind her head, “How are you feeling?”

“High,” Sansa responds. She sighs, closing her eyes, “I’m ready for this to be over.”

"It'll be in a minute," Jon answers, caressing the fine baby hairs in her hairline.

Doctor Wolkan walks in and the procedure starts. Sansa doesn't remember much of the beginning; the long minutes sterilizing her skin, cutting open her lower stomach and trying to locate her uterus in a sea of bloody organs and swollen skin.

She has her eyes closed, taking deep breaths with her mouth when the first baby comes out. A strangled, frail cry rings in the room and doctor Wolkan lifts over a red thing over the blue drape that is keeping her from seeing them fiddle with her insides. It's a tiny baby, with small limbs and a scrunched up face, too scared of the world around them.

During nursing school, Sansa had seen a human birth more than ten times. As a pediatrician nurse, she had her fair share of newborns being handed to her care. Term babies, chubby, healthy and angry babies, upset at the idea of having been born, but this baby is different. The skin is red not from contact with her blood, but because it's too thin, too underdeveloped. The cry is weak and she knows that frail lungs are at fault.

 _Too soon,_  she thinks. This one was born too soon and all of their siblings will follow into this scary and unknown path.

"Baby A," doctor Wolkan announces, handing her to a nurse, "Girl."

 _Mya._ A sudden urge to see her takes over Sansa and she turns, trying to catch the nurse running out of the room with her daughter in hands, heading for the NICU. Someone touches her shoulder, asking her not to move, and she freezes in her place. There are four more babies to go.

A second later, doctor Wolkan's face breaks into a smile, "Baby B," he says, but Sansa can't hear anything. No cry, no gasping for air, "Boy."

"That's Brandon, sweetheart," Jon says, his eyes shining with happy tears.

"I can't hear him crying," she murmurs, "Is everything alright with him?"

Jon laughs and kisses her forehead, "Yes. He's crying, don't worry."

Brandon is lifted over the drape for less time than his sister, moving his arm around as if searching for the brother that shared a placenta with him for over six months. He has a long face, with tiny eyes. In a second, he's handed off to a nurse, who runs to put him in an incubator.

Sansa closes her eyes and Jon rubs her arms, waking her up.

"Just three more babies and you can go to sleep, ok?" he says, lips against her ear.

She nods and opens her eyes once more. The drugs given to her are so potent, so strong, and her body is so tired after six months of being dragged to its limits that she is exhausted. Sansa feels as if her entire system is shutting down, not being able to continue doing what it has already done.

"Baby C," doctor Wolkan says, exposing a red and bloody Torrhen, "Boy."

He's the smallest one yet and his cries are soft, barely imperceptible. His face, identical to Brandon's, is scrunched up. Torrhen is taken away by a thin nurse and Sansa follows her back with her eyes, his cry ringing on her ears. Tears stream down her face and she touches Jon's chin, trying to drag him closer to her.

A minute passes before anyone talks again, "Baby D," murmurs Doctor Wolkan, "Girl."

Alys is whisked away before Sansa has a chance to see her, a tinge of desperation in the nurse's walk and she knows something must be wrong for them to take her away so quickly. A red arm, dangling from the blanket is all that Sansa catches before they leave the operation room in a hurry.

She turns to Jon. He's smiling as if he hasn't noticed their daughter being taken away, or maybe he has and just doesn't want to worry her.

"Just one more," he whispers, "Just one more and we're done."

Sansa nods, rubbing his cheek with her fingers, feeling the soft dark hairs on her skin.

Another minute passes, then another, before doctor Wolkan's voice rings in the silent room, "Breech. The fifth one is breech." He takes Amma out carefully, soft movements to prevent any complications with her position.

She's big, bigger than anyone else, but she doesn't seem to notice that she has been born, tightly holding a fetal position as soft cries emerge from her mouth. Sansa looks at her with twice the love, knowing that by looking at Amma's face, she's looking at Alys' as well.

A nurse takes her away and, as quickly as labor started, it's over. She's done it. She gave birth to the first set of quintuplets born alive in the country. Sansa looks at Jon, tears streaming down her face, and she smiles behind her oxygen mask.

"We did it," she whispers, amazed, "We're parents."

Jon nods, taking her hand and kissing her palm.

"Go check on them," she says, "See if everything's alright with Alys."

He kisses her forehead and leaves, following a nurse who is willing enough to show him around. Sansa closes her eyes slightly, allowing herself to rest after he leaves and the doctors get ready to stitch her up. She rubs her neck, feeling the painkillers finally get to her as her body realizes that, after twenty-seven long weeks, there are no more babies for her to nurture. A weight has been lifted off of her chest, permitting her lungs to fully expand and breathe in more air, helpfully aided by the oxygen mask on her face.

“Perfect,” doctor Wolkan says, “No uterine bleeding outside of the normal.” He looks at his assistant, a trembling intern with wide brown eyes, “If I hadn’t just pulled out those five babies myself, I’d think this would be an ordinary c-section.” He stitches Sansa up, placing the three placentas on a nearby silver trail for discard.

Two male nurses pick Sansa up after he is done, placing her in another bed. She takes off the oxygen mask, angry with the damn thing, and they take her to a post-op room.

“When can I see the children?” she asks, voice tired.

The tallest one is the one to answer, “When the drugs have been weaned off of your body.”

Sansa nods. It makes sense.

When she enters, she sees that her parents are already there, along with Lyanna. They are staring at each other in a weird as if they have just spent an hour in total silence and maybe that’s exactly what has happened. Her mother is not exactly welcoming to free folk and her father has a tendency to follow Catelyn’s lead.

“Hello, love,” her father says, seeing her enter, “Where is Jon? He called us to let us know that you’d be delivering today.”

Sansa is about to open her mouth to answer that he’s with the babies at her request when his voice sounds from behind her, “Right here.”

She turns. He’s in the doorway, still in his scrubs, but there is an awestruck smile on his face as if he has seen the seven heavens and come back to Earth to tell the story. He walks to her, stopping by her side, and kisses her entire face, laying slobbering kisses on her cheeks, her forehead, her ears.

“You were amazing,” Jon whispers, “A warrior, the she-wolf of Winterfell come again.”

He steps back, taking her hand, and Sansa smiles, leaning her head against his arm. His mother hugs him, kissing his face, and her father shakes his hand.

“How are they?” Sansa asks, “Is Alys okay?”

“She’s perfect, love,” he answers, “They said she wasn’t born breathing, but, as soon as they left the operating room, she started crying. A little trickster, that’s what she is.”

Sansa smiles and calm takes over her, relaxing her entire body.

An hour passes and then another, with Jon never leaving her side. He told her to sleep, to rest, but she couldn’t, not until she saw her babies. As the drugs wore off her body, her belly starts to become sorer, certainly a side effect of having been cut open and prodded around.

Near sundown, Jon is fiddling with his phone and she is in bed, anxiously watching the door, waiting for someone to take her to the NICU.

“Hey,” he says, “Look at this.”

He hands her his phone and she picks it up, frowning slightly at the tiny font that he uses.

**Set of Quintuplets Born Alive in the North**

_A full set of quintuplets has just been born to Sansa and Jon Snow, a story that the entire country has been watching for almost seven months. The three girls and the two boys are the one of a kind in Westeros, or shall we say, five of a kind? According to a source at the King Brandon’s Hospital, in which the children were born, no complications have arisen after the births with either the children or their mother._

_Sansa and Jon Snow have hit headlines these past few months due to a feud with Jon’s father, the business mogul, Rhaegar Targaryen concerning the children…_

She hands his phone back, “So much for privacy.”

Jon rubs her arm, “Don’t worry about it. It could be a lot worse. At least they didn’t release their names.”

Sansa nods, though it does little to ease her mind.

Her door is opened and a nurse enters her room, dragging beside her what appears to be a large white cart. Sansa grabs the side of her bed as she notices what is happening, especially as a high pitched cry fills the room, a tiny little red thing moving inside the incubator on the cart. Jon smiles, holding her hand, and he must know exactly who is that since he has already seen all of their children.

“We’ve brought Amma to see you,” the nurse says, coming closer.

"Already?" Sansa asks, trying to sit up. Jon holds her shoulders, warning about her stitches.

"Yes," she answers and the cart comes next to Sansa, a red and spindly child calmly sleeping inside of it. Monitors are attached in her chest, in her head, her little hands, and it’s as if Amma doesn’t even notice them, a small plastic tube sticking in her nostrils, supplying her tiny self with oxygen, “She’s the biggest one. Exactly two pounds.”

Sansa sighs, relaxed, “That’s wonderful,” she murmurs. She knows that Amma is too small to be held yet, so she squirts some purell into her hand and touches her through a small hole on her clear walled incubator. Despite her weight, Amma is just bones, not having yet acquired enough fat to keep her temperature stable and a yellow light inside of it is her only source of warmth. Her red skin is sticky and too thin, “You’re so pretty, Amma. Looks just like mama.”

Jon, standing behind her, smiles, “I thought so too.”

"You are my big girl, you'll show the way to your brothers and sisters," Sansa says, leaning forward, "Promise me."

Amma doesn't answer but it's not as if she could if she wanted to.

The nurse takes a picture of them with Jon’s phone: Sansa with her hand touching Amma’s long arm and Jon on the other side, smiling like the happiest man on all of the land.

The NICU is on the other side of the maternity ward, a sad little white door leading to it, and Sansa is wheeled there, still on her bed, invading the quiet solitude of the room. Ten little incubators beep around, carefully nurturing premature babies. There's another mother present, palming her hands against the clear plastic surrounding her child, and she only looks at Sansa through the corner of her eye. She looks tired, with inky bags deepening under her eyes, and Sansa wonders for how many days she has worried about her child, neglecting her own personal health, and if she'd be the same.

"The quints take up half of the NICU," a nurse says, a name tag in her chest saying _Wylla,_  "Brandon and Alys are over there," she points to an opening on the wall, where a second room of the neonatal intensive care unit has been built, "Mya, Torrhen and Amma are over here."

"Sounds good," Sansa says and she arches her back, straining her neck in order to see better.

"This is Mya," Jon says, leading her to a near incubator.

Mya is lying still, drawing in shallow breaths, struggling to survive, but she's perfect. A heart monitor next to her box shows a steady heartbeat. Sansa puts her hand inside, touching her tiny little palm, and Mya's weak red fingers close around her ring finger.

"Sweet girl," Sansa whispers, "I dreamed about you. You were big and healthy, with brown locks and blue eyes," Sansa takes in a breath, struggling not to cry, "I will be very angry with you if that doesn't come true. You'll be grounded forever. I swear it."

She sighs.

"How much does she weigh?"

"Hum," Jon hesitates, "One and fourteen, if I'm not wrong."

"The girls are the bigger ones," Wylla says.

"Are they?" Jon smiles.

"Of course," Sansa answers, "They are northern girls. It's obvious that they'd be bigger."

Jon laughs and Sansa smiles, allowing herself to be taken to the next incubator.

Torrhen seems even weaker than his sisters, who were already tiny and helpless in Sansa's eyes. He doesn't move, not because he's asleep, but because he doesn't have the strength for it. His tiny little eyes struggle to open up and a machine beeps around him, forcing oxygen into his body. He can't breathe on his own.

"He's the smallest out of all of them, isn't he?" Sansa asks and she doesn't need Jon's answers to know. He doesn't react to her voice, it's as if she isn't there at all.

"Yes," Wylla says, "One and ten."

"Poor little boy," Sansa whispers, stroking his head. Fine brown hairs touch her skin, coming off with touch, "I'm not leaving you, Torr. Mommy is here. I will never abandon you."

She wants to kiss him, to hold him in her arms, but she can't. It's as if she's not his mother, so unable to care for him, and tears come to her eyes, streaming down her face.

"I'm so sorry that I couldn't carry you any longer," she says, focussing her eyes on him, "It's my fault that this is happening to you, my love."

Sansa removes her hand and rubs her fingers on her cheeks, cleaning up her tears. Two nurses wheel her away into the other room, where Alys and Brandon stay with three other preemies.

Alys is the nearest one and she's awake, blinking her tiny baby gray eyes open. Like her twin sister, Sansa can see how much they, her and the girls, look alike, from the curve of the nose to the high cheekbones. Perhaps, it's because they don't have enough baby fat yet to cover their bone structure when they'll truly look just like any other newborn, or maybe because she just wants to feel as if this is her child, half her and half Jon, so she's unconsciously looking for resemblance.

"A one pound and thirteen ounces darling," Sansa says, reading her chart, "You truly gave us a scare, Alys, out there. I was so frightened. I thought I lost you, my darling girl. Hopefully, that'll be the last time I think that."

Alys doesn't respond, she's too young to control her muscles yet, so Sansa lets herself be wheeled away.

Brandon is the last one. Sansa feels exhausted after seeing each and every one of her babies so helpless, but she puts a brave face for him, even if she knows that he won't notice or care about it.

"How much is he?" she asks, knowing that an extra ounce can be the difference between life and death in the NICU.

"One and eleven," Jon answers.

Sansa puts her hand inside of the incubator and touches his chest, feeling him take in weak little breaths. He's bigger than Torrhen and it's as if they aren't even identical twins, considering their different status.

"You were the leader in my belly," she whispers, remembering how he would start moving around and everyone followed suit, creating a chain of kicks and punches on her uterus, "Now, you need to be strong and survive. My Brandon, my northern warrior."

_All of you need to be strong and survive. For me. For daddy. For everyone._

* * *

Jon steps outside, shivering as the cold autumn air flows around him, invading the tiny entrances in his coat, gloves, and hat. The hospital buzzes behind him, pregnant women and injured men walking inside, not even paying him a glance.

He buries his hand on his pockets and fishes out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He promised Sansa he'd stop, but that is easier said than done, especially when it's about an addiction spanning over twenty years.

His wife just gave birth and his children fight for their lives inside that very hospital. _Anyone_ would understand him being stressed enough to smoke one. And that will be it. Just one cigarette. Just one and he'd return to Sansa's bedside. If he managed to mask the scent of the nicotine enough, she wouldn't even notice it.

Jon puts a cigarette between his lips and lights it, stepping away from the hospital, hiding from any familial visitors that might rat him out to his wife. He stands underneath a tall tree, leaning against the rough humid bark, letting the smoke fill his lungs. It feels almost comical to think about Amma, Alys, Mya, Torrhen, and Brandon, struggling to breathe and having air forced inside their chests, while he is there, purposely destroying his body from the inside. It's a sick joke and he's the one making it.

He stays there for ten minutes, maybe fifteen, and he's almost done with the cigarette when it happens.

"How are them?" a voice asks behind him, sickeningly sweet and extremely familiar. Jon turns, shocked, and sees her.

It's been five years since he last saw his aunt and Daenerys has changed much ever since that fateful day. Her hair, who was long, shiny and silver, has been cut in chin-length, flowing around her pale face. Her violet eyes gleam in recognition and she smiles, wickedly. She's wearing a gray winter coat and, with the snow falling around her, it's as if she belongs there, as if she and her entire kind are not invaders, taking what they want and leaving the shell of a land behind. Valyrians conquer with fire and blood, everyone said so.

 _But she's my father's sister,_ Jon thinks, melancholic, _If she's an invader, then so am I._

"What are you doing here?" he asks, recomposing himself.

Daenerys shrugs. She's shorter than him and much smaller than the average andal, but still. She carries herself as if she above him, flowing on the air, flying around in the back of a dragon, "I came to see my nephews and nieces, obviously. It might seem like a surprise to you, Jon, but I care about them." She sighs, leaning her head on the tree. Jon wants to get away from her, to put as much distance between them as he can, but the image of Sansa and their struggling children come to his mind and he stays put, not letting her pass through him, "I took the first flight when Rhaegar read about their birth. I had to see how they were with my own eyes."

"Bullshit," Jon says and she recoils in shock with his crass words, "You and Rhaegar care about nothing, but yourselves. Admit it, Dany. You're here to threaten me, to force me into submission."

Daenerys smiles and her pearl white teeth gleam in the dark night.

"Oh, Jon, you have always been a clever one." She steps forward. "Did you receive our gift?"

"I did," he answers.

He knows what she's talking about. The eggs. Jon thinks about them, their scaly metallic shells, their warmth to the touch and how easy they broke when he used an ax on them.

Daenerys frowns and it's as if she's reading his thoughts, learning what he did with her precious dragon eggs.

"You wouldn't…" she whispers, shocked.

Jon steps forward, trapping her between him and the tree, not allowing her any opening to escape.

"I would do anything to save my family, Daenerys," he says, harsh, " _Anything."_

Daenerys blinks, snowflakes collect on her gray lashes, and she lets out a puff white breath, her pale cheeks rosing up with blood.

"We're your family too, _Jaehaerys,_ " she answers, using his valyrian name.

He thinks about his three years living with his father. The Targaryen mansion had fifteen bedrooms, countless servants and no one where to hide. Jon remembers his older sister, locked in her room day and night, drowning her sorrow at losing her mother and brother in sharp needles and a white powder. Daenerys was fourteen when he arrived, all long legs and toothy smiles, but the glimmer of madness still shone in her purple eyes. His father hired a thousand tutors to teach him the Common Tongue and basic education, since, as he put it, _you couldn't trust a handful of savages to raise a child properly._

 _You're a half breed,_ his math teacher used to say, slapping his fingers with a long wooden ruler and the sharp bite of it still stings on Jon, twenty years later, _You should be thankful that your honorable father saved you before it was too late._ But Jon was never saved. He was taken from his tribe, any earlier and he wouldn't know his roots, his faith, his way of living. Cultural genocide, that's what it's called.

"No," he says, "Family is made with love, with friendship, with unbreakable bonds." He points to the hospital, "My family is in there. Struggling to survive, blaming herself. You and Rhaegar are nothing to me. _Nothing._ "

Daenerys pouts, "I wish you hadn't said that Jon," she says, "I truly do. Now we have no choice."

Jon frowns, stepping back.

"What are you talking about?" he asks.

She shrugs, looking around, "Rhaegar wants to know these children, have them near, and I truly thought that with my phone call and his gift, you'd understand." She sighs, "We have no choice now, but to file for custody."

His heart falls to his stomach and a sudden cold takes over him, filling his veins with ice and paralyzing his muscles.

"Goodbye, Jon," Daenerys says and she smiles. Before he can react, she presses their lips together, licking into his mouth, moaning, "As delicious as I remember." And with that, she leaves.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and the Wildlings

Jon talks with his mother when he thinks she's asleep, whispering in his native language to her and they argue for what feels like hours. Not for the first time, Sansa wishes she could understand them, to know what they are talking about, especially as she hears her name being mentioned thrice, and Rhaegar's once.

She can see that Lyanna doesn't agree with Jon and is getting exasperated by the minute with him. Her voice rises to a shout, before her son shushes her, whispering something about Sansa.

“ _Magga,_ ” Jon says, tired. _Mother._ And then something else that she can’t understand. Lyanna makes a face, frustrated and angry at the same time and opens her mouth.

Sansa figures out that now is a good time to interrupt their argument before it escalates to something unrepairable, “Jon?” she calls, stretching her arm out in his general direction.

Jon sighs, “I’m right here, baby,” he says, switching easily between the languages as he has done since the day his mother arrived. He walks to the bed, toeing off his shoes and removing his coat, before laying down next to her. Sansa feels his hands hug her waist, pulling her closer, and he touches her neck.

The door opens and closes and Sansa knows that Lyanna must have left them.

“Is something wrong?” she says, “Were you arguing with your mother?”

Jon nuzzles her neck, kissing her hairline, and she sighs, leaning into his embrace, “Don’t worry,” he says, “Everything is fine.”

Sansa draws a circle on his arm with her finger, her nail catching on his knotted hairs. She remembers a conversation she had with Jon, in her early pregnancy, _“What else did your mom say?” she asked, licking her lips. Jon may not be a good cook, but he knew how much she loves ketchup._

_“Just some tips,” he said, looking at his hands, “Plus she wants us to live in the reservation.”_

Lyanna must have asked him to return once more to their tribe and to take Sansa and the babies with him. She probably thought that Rhaegar could never touch them there, to take her children away, but Jon must have made her see that it would not be possible. Sansa tried to imagine a life in the reservation, living each day as if the War of Dawn never happened and they stayed as isolated as ever, no technologies nor advanced medicine. Could she kill a living thing? It's one thing to buy a hare in a grocery store, another is to slay it, trying to pull her own weight in a society where to eat, you must hunt and everyone has a job to do. She doesn't let herself imagine for long though. If Rhaegar managed to get custody of Jon without ever meeting him, what made her think that the same wouldn’t happen with them?

“I’m so scared of him,” she admits, her words hanging in the air around them, like smoke, choking her, “I don’t want Rhaegar to take away our children.”

Jon hugs her tighter, nuzzling her back with his nose, and she feels the entirety of his love seeping into her from his hands, his lips, his touch.

"He won't," Jon answers, "I promise you, love."

Sansa rolls her eyes, "How can you be so sure of that?" she asks, tired, "He's the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms and the richest. If he wanted, he could bribe any judge in the country to award him custody."

"I have my ways," her husband says.

Sansa turns on the bed, careful not to strain her belly too much so as to not rip off her stitches, and looks at Jon. Her room is dark, it's nearly midnight, and his eyes shine as he looks at her, the glow of the city invading it through the curtains.

She puts her hands on his cheeks and kisses him, softly and lovingly. Jon kisses her back, licking into her mouth, and gently touching her lower back, "Have I ever told you how much I love you?" he asks, leaning their foreheads together.

"Yes." Sansa smiles, "I love you too."

He untangles himself from her, whispering about changing into his pajamas so they can sleep, and Sansa laces her hands together, placing them underneath her head. She watches him walk to the couch, where his bag is, and pull out a long-sleeved cotton shirt and matching pants.

"We should let your father see them," she says, thinking that there is no better time than now to broach that topic with him.

Jon stops, his shoulders tensing up and Sansa regrets her words almost instantly. He puts his shirt down and turns slowly, looking at her as if she’s a stranger, not his wife of many years and the mother of his children. Sansa holds his gaze and sits up on the bed, not letting herself be a coward.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, walking to her, “Why?”

Sansa licks her lips, “Daenerys, when she called me, said… She said that if we let him see them twice a year, he wouldn’t…”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Jon rubs his face, “Sansa, we can’t believe them. They are liars. We might allow them this and Rhaegar would still sue us for custody.”

“But we have to try!” she exclaims, sitting up on her knees, “Please, Jon. If we let him see them twice a year, if we allow them this much, then they would still be with us. The quints would still live with us, they would know their mommy and daddy, not whatever devilish image Rhaegar would certainly fabricate to them.”

She touches his face, turning his eyes to hers and holds his gaze. Jon looks at her like she is the most gorgeous woman alive, even during the middle of an argument, and this is no different. He blinks his eyes and takes a deep, sorrowful breath. Standing up in the bed on her knees makes her taller than him so he takes a step forward, burying his head between her breasts, and hugs her.

“I don’t want them near him,” he says, “He’s evil. He should be locked up in a cell somewhere, paying for his actions, for what he did _to me._ Our children deserve better than him.”

“I know,” Sansa answers, caressing his brown locks, "I don't want to do this either, but we have to. For them."

Jon supports his chin on the top of her chest, looking up at her, and she sees that his cheeks are wet with tears. Sansa rubs them away, pinching the soft flesh underneath, and hugs him back, “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, “It’s not your fault.”

“I feel like it is,” she whispers, “If I hadn’t given birth to quintuplets, he wouldn’t even care, I’m sure.”

Jon shrugs, “We can’t know that.”

Sansa closes her eyes, leaning her head on Jon’s shoulder, and she sighs. So many fertility drugs, so many cycles of needles and insecurities, wondering when she would finally become a mother, and it was all her fault. Jon had no fertility problems, his sperm count and mobility is perfect, even. She had endometriosis and an irregular cycle, turning their chances of getting pregnant lower and lower.

“You don’t have to be here when he comes,” she whispers, “I’ll say that you’re at work, Rhaegar will be none the wiser.”

Jon shakes his head, “I’m not leaving you alone with him.”

Sansa sighs, but doesn’t say anything. If he wants it that way, so be it.

“He’ll try to buy us,” Jon whispers, “He thinks money means affection. That’s what his father did to him, showering his son with gifts and presents, and he doesn’t know the difference between love that is bought and one that is earned.”

He pauses, swallowing dry.

“You must see the truth in such… favors. They aren’t truly what they seem. Everything with him comes with a price.”

Sansa nods, “And our children will be the one to pay it.”

* * *

Theon comes to see her on a Tuesday.

It's been a decade since she has last seen him and the years have begun to take a toll on her brother. His hair, formerly black and lively, is almost completely white and wrinkles cover his face and hands. He's nearly forty, she reminds herself, but it's as if he's reaching the fifties. His eyes, however, remain the same. Dark and haunted.

Sansa remembers the day Theon came to them, almost thirty years before. He was broken, abused and frightened of his new surroundings. Extremely thin and hurt, Theon refused any sort of help, even going as far as spitting food on her mother's face before stuffing his face with sweets during the night. His mother is a prostitute and his father, a crack addict, she overheard her father say to her mother one time and that was enough explanation as to why Theon lived with them, He doesn’t know any lifestyle other than violence. During the first year, he'd run away, try to find his way back home, and the police would deliver him during the early hours of the morning. Eventually, he warmed up to her father and Robb, though he continued acting as if Catelyn Stark was nothing but an acquaintance of his, even into his adult years. As they got older, Theon refused to say what happened to him during those years with his birth family, but Sansa had seen the cigarette burns on his chest once, when her father brought everyone on a business trip to Dorne on her seventh birthday.

He hugs her tightly, though, and kisses her hair, “Sansy,” he says, “You look great.”

Sansa doesn’t look great, but she knows that he is only being nice, a rare treat with Theon, no matter his mood, so she smiles, “Thanks. You do too.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets, looking around her hospital room, clearly at lost with himself, not knowing what to do, but the fact that he is there is what’s most important.

“Where’s Jon?” he asks, sitting in the gray chair by her side.

“At work,” Sansa answers, “He was invited to give classes to first-year students as well because their professor had a mental breakdown and had to be committed to a mental asylum.”

Theon frowns and a big grin cuts his face, his shiny white teeth glistening in the artificial light of her room, “Are you joking, Sansypants?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Yes, she quit because she had a baby."

Theon nods and he looks around, slightly uncomfortable at being in a hospital. Sansa knows that he has nosocomephobia, so him being there for her meant a lot.

"Have you seen them?" Sansa asks, leaning her head back in her bed.

"Who? The babies?" Theon asks and she nods, "I passed by the NICU before I came here. The girl twins look a lot like you."

Sansa smiles, happily. She thinks so too. Despite their small size and fragile bodies, Sansa can see herself in them: from the long skinny legs to the high cheekbones and the few wisps of red hair growing on their heads. Amma and Alys would grow up to be spitting images of their mother, Sansa is sure.

"We had some problems with Mya last night," Sansa says, a hint of worry lacing her words, "She would stop breathing suddenly and the machine would have to take over."

Theon hums, "I imagine you're not too thrilled by this."

Sansa nods and the tears flood her eyes, threatening to spill over, "It's just… She's only a week old and this is a major setback. They were all breathing on their own and then this happens." She sighs, trying to calm herself down, and looks at her lap, where she plays with her fingers, "It just goes to show you how life on the NICU can change in a second."

A large hand enters her field of vision, grabbing her own, and Sansa looks up, seeing Theon lean forward to hold her. She sighs, intertwining their fingers, and smiles, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says, “For coming, for everything.”

“That’s what brothers are for, right?” he asks and she nods, smiling.

* * *

Rhaegar is a tall man, with long silver hair and sparkling indigo eyes. He is wearing a purple suit and he has a walking cane on his hand, though she suspects he doesn’t actually need it, perhaps because he wanted people to think of him as frail and weak, not as the slithering poisonous snake that he is.

He leans forward when he sees her, kissing her on both cheeks, “Sansa,” he says and his voice is sickeningly sweet, “How I have longed to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she answers, sitting up. Sansa is wearing her favorite blue shirt and yoga pants, not exactly the perfect outfit to meeting your goodfather in, though she doesn’t care what he thinks of her, "We hope you had a safe flight."

Rhaegar smiles, "The quickest. Private jets can be very useful these days."

Jon grimaces, but he quickly softens his expression before his father sees it. He stands up, letting himself be engulfed in a hug by Rhaegar, and taps his back gently. His eyes meet hers as they hug, looking at her as if he's saying _I'm doing this for you, make it worth it._

Daenerys Targaryen is right behind her brother. Sansa doesn't know what she expected from her goodaunt, perhaps red snake eyes, scaly green skin, fangs instead of teeth. But this is certainly not it.

She has soft, short gray curls, and her violet eyes glow with hidden madness. She's wearing a blue dress that is certainly very expensive, along with black high heels and a perfect face of makeup that must have taken hours to complete. She looks normal, as if that is even possible.

Daenerys ignores Sansa, bypassing her completely in favor of Jon, and she hugs her nephew tightly, holding him against her chest in what can’t be considered normal. Jon hugs her back for a second before letting her go.

“It’s so good to be here,” she says, “I told Rhaegar that you’d understand, that you’d see reason. You’ve always been the smartest one, Jon.”

Jon presses his lips together, “Yes, but I can’t take credit for this.” He sighs. “My wife made me see reason.”

Daenerys frowns slightly and turns around, looking at Sansa as if she’s finally noticed her presence. Sansa looks back and a fit of petty jealousy fills her veins, corrupting her entire body. _He’s mine, not yours. I’m the one that is called Mrs. Snow._

“I expected no less of my gooddaughter,” Rhaegaer says, moving the attention of the room back to him. It must annoy him, she thinks, to not have everyone looking at him, kissing the ground that he walks on, “We passed by the NICU on our way here. A little window and that was all we could see of them. So sad, makes you feel more grateful for what life has given you.”

He looks at Jon as if daring him to say anything, and Sansa licks her lips, taking a deep breath, “Yes, you’re right, goodfather.” She pauses when he looks at her, narrowing his eyes until they are two purple slits on his face, “I think before every action that I might take now and I wonder how it will affect them. Motherhood… it really changes a woman.”

Rhaegar doesn’t say anything for a second and she wonders if she crossed a line. It’s so hard being around him, walking in eggshells, trying not to trigger something. However, before she can worry anymore, he smiles, tightly, and it feels forced, somehow.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” he murmurs, “Speaking of mothers, Jon, where is yours?” He turns to his son, “It’s been so long since I have last seen Lyanna and I was so sure that she was in Winterfell… I must say I miss her.”

If she were any other person, Sansa would think that this showed his love for her, and how much he longed for his former mistress, but she isn’t. Her goodmother’s words ring in her ears, drowning out all other noises, _“I had an affair with Rhaegar because I was young and stupid,” she said, serious, “Because I thought that making him love me would mean that his company would start having more concern about my people and the world, but I was wrong. Rhaegar didn’t love me. He can’t love anyone, but himself.”_

All he cares about is blood, Sansa thinks. Family is blood. Power is blood. Fire is blood. If Jon wasn’t his son if Rhaegar wasn’t the quint's grandfather… It’s no good to dwell on daydreams.

“She is at my house,” Jon says, “We have two large dogs and they can’t be left alone for long periods of time.”

That’s not exactly true. Lyanna decided not to visit that day because she didn’t know what she’d do when she saw Rhaegar: if she'd slap him, spit in his face or burst into tears for stealing her son away. Like Jon, Lyanna Snow never quite managed to forgive him.

But Sansa doesn’t say anything. She only smiles.

“Oh, I understand,” Rhaegar says, pouting slightly, “We’ll have to leave that for next time.” He sighs, taking a deep breath. “Daenerys, give it to him.”

Jon frowns and Daenerys smiles, devilish. She walks to him slowly, fishing something out of her purse, and Sansa braces herself for a handgun, a knife, anything. But it’s not. It’s just a set of car keys and a clearly new one to top it off. Jon opens his hands and she sets it down, smiling throughout.

“I understand that your method of transportation for the entire family has yet to be sorted out, so I took the liberty of pulling a few strings,” Rhaegar says, entirely pleased with himself, “A Chrysler Pacifica with eight seats and very good reviews. In your favorite color, of course.”

Sansa widens her eyes and, just like that, they are once more in debt with Rhaegar Targaryen.

* * *

Sansa doesn't turn on the lights as she enters the room, too frightened to disturb the carefully frozen peace inside it. For weeks, she'd refused to enter this room, not knowing what she would do once she is inside, but now, Sansa is finally brave enough to face her fears.

Two cots, each on opposite sides in front of her. A wall behind one of the cribs is painted a deep navy blue, while the other one is a dark green, looking almost black underneath the cover of darkness. There are two drawers against the free wall, right underneath the window, each filled with a thousand, maybe more, onesies, pants, shirts, hats, gloves, anything that her sons might need during their first months of life at home. Sansa ghosts her fingers over the dark wood, feeling it cold to the touch.

It's her first day back home after delivering the quintuplets and she misses them terribly.

There's a teddy bear on Brandon's crib, just waiting for his arrival, and she takes it in her hands. Sansa flicks her finger over the fuzzy ear and the blackened buttons that serve for eyes seem to stare right into her, the stitched-on smile almost mocking.

Sansa returns the stuffed toy to its place and, as quickly as she entered the room, she leaves it.

 

* * *

Lyanna twists her face, hissing when her needle punctures her thumb, and Sansa watches her, too enthralled to say anything.

She thought of her goodmother as a she-warrior of old, with her long brown hair, fierce smile and fur boots, but, in that calm sunday, where Jon naps in the couch and Sansa watches, or pretends to, television, Lyanna seems to allow herself to be something more, embroidering away at flimsy pieces of fabric. There's five and four are ready, for what Sansa has managed to see. Each piece has a different color. Purple, blue, green, yellow and red. Each of the quints.

"What are you doing?" Sansa asks, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.

Jon stirs in his sleep, but he doesn't wake up.

Lyanna looks at her son for half a second, before returning her gaze to the task at hand, "Trinkets. For protection," she says, simply.

Sansa shifts in the couch, the covers that she brought from her bedroom upstairs bundling up around her, and she rests her head on her hands. She watches Lyanna work, stitching patterns into the red hem with a golden thread, whistling to herself. Her face is so focused, with a tiny wrinkle between her thick eyebrows.

It’s her first week back home, three weeks after the quints birth, and she still struggles to find something to do during the day. She quit her work to move back home and has yet to accept the position in the Heartstone Community Hospital offered by her father since Jon and she agreed that she’d stay at home with the babies, at least until they are a little older and no less of a handful.

Lyanna, however, is very happy to offer a company for Sansa and she can’t thank her goodmother enough for that.

“Do you see?” Lyanna asks, tracing her finger over a golden rune on the fabric. There are five of them, straight and simple runes that seem like taken out of a fairytale, “These are my people’s runes, how we write. That’s Amma’s name written in the Old Tongue.” She turns the fabric in her hand, revealing another writing on the other side of it, this time with the Common Tongue’s alphabet. _Bird._ “And that is the translation.”

Sansa takes the green fabric in her hands, Torrhen’s, and sees a different set of runes in it. She turns it. _King._ Brandon’s is the closest one to her fingers and that is what she sees next, _warrior._ Alys’ falls on the ground with her movements and she sees the writing without having to move: _maid._ Mya’s is next and Sansa holds the purple one against her chest, feeling like crying. _Flower._

“Tomorrow,” Lyanna starts, “We’ll go to the hospital and place those over them. This marks them as free people underneath the protection of our clan, so the gods will pay special care to them.”

The quints aren’t in incubators anymore, they have been transferred to semi-closed cots, a big milestone to be reached by preterm babies, and she doubts that the nurses will allow such a thing entering their sterile, white room, but Sansa doesn’t to break the spell that they are in.

“How are you so sure that they will work?”

“It worked with Jon,” Lyanna says and that is enough of an answer for Sansa.

* * *

Alys blinks her gray eyes open, staring at her mother, and Sansa smiles, shifting her shirt out of the way so that her daughter can nurse better. She turns her eyes, and sees Brandon, his tiny fist leaning against her left breast as he suckles calmly, without a care in the entire world. It’s early in the morning, perhaps nine o’clock, and the NICU is completely empty, save for them. Jon is feeding Torrhen, grinning to himself, and her parents have Amma and Mya in their arms.

“Alys gained an entire pound in the last month,” Sansa says, “She’s a hungry girl. I wonder how we’ll afford to feed her for the next eighteen years.”

Her father smiles but doesn’t say anything, focusing on the baby at his own arms. Sansa lays her head back on the chair that she is, allowing herself to relax for a moment as Alys suckles. She spent the entire previous night pumping breast milk for them and she already feels ready to pump more.

A lactation consultant had seen her right after the babies’ birth and recommended to start pumping right away and to do it as often as she can. She explained in clear words that the more she pumped, the more milk her breasts would produce. Though no one is entirely sure if she could exclusively breastfeed the quints — the only other woman in the world to have a set of quintuplets for as long as she did, had to formula after having anemia and couldn’t offer any help in the matter —, Sansa could save a lot of money and health troubles for her children if she tried her hardest to produce as much milk as she could.

Hormones had been offered to increase her production, but Sansa wasn’t entirely sure if she wanted to have an expense that could affect her own body hormonally. If anything changed over the next months and she needed that extra hormone, then so be it, but until then, she’d try her damn best to do it without medicinal help.

When feeding time is over, Sansa places Brandon and Alys into their cots. Two and a half pounds for Brandon and almost three for Alys. It’s difficult to see them looking like term babies more each day and think that they are actually almost three months old, but she is happy that they are healthier than ever.

A doctor enters the room, tall and looming, someone Sansa has seen before during the quints’ stay in the NICU. Doctor Reed, she believes. He is a neonatal specialist and the pediatrician who handles their case.

He takes her and Jon aside, along with Wylla, the nurse who has been with them since day one, and a sudden, paralyzing fear takes over Sansa. A hundred thoughts race over her mind, each more horrifying than the previous one. Mya is not breathing well again, Torrhen lost weight, Amma has an infection. She takes Jon’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and takes comfort in him being there with her.

“Alys is…” he starts, nervous and Sansa holds her breath, “She’s ready to go home.”

Her heart stops. A buzzing sound fills her ears and she blinks several times, trying to understand what she has just heard.

“Really?” Jon asks, regaining his voice.

“Yes,” doctor Reed continues, “She’s weighing three pounds and two ounces, has no lingering respiratory issues and it’s been weeks since our last problem with her.”

Wylla smiles, “With Mya and Torrhen, it was easy to forget that she was even here outside of feeding times. She’s such an easy baby.”

Sansa lets out her breath and her entire body relaxes, filled with a warm and fuzzy feeling. She looks at Jon and he is smiling so big that it feels his face will rip apart. She licks her lips and tears reach her eyes.

“Tomorrow, you’ll bring a car seat and clothes for her,” doctor Reed says, “And I’ll discharge her.”

Sansa smiles and it feels as if her heart exploded inside her chest.

* * *

Sansa blinks her eyes open and she sits up on the bed, heart racing inside her chest. Heavy footsteps come from the first floor in their house, loud and scary. She turns to her husband. Jon is snoring on the bed, mouth hanging open, completely obvious to what is happening. She places her hands on his shoulders and shakes him violently.

"Jon!" she whispers, or rather shouts, "Someone is here! Jon, wake up!"

He opens his eyes and stares at her, slightly confused, "What?"

Before she can answer, another groan comes from the floor below and he sits up, shoulders tensing up. Sansa grabs her blankets and pulls them to her chin, wanting to hide beneath it.

"Should we call the police?" she asks.

Jon shakes his head, "No need," he says and turns his back, reaching for something from behind the bed. The sound of something metallic being unsheathed rings in her ears and Sansa almost screams when Jon pulls out a knife, the blade almost the size of her forearm. It shines underneath the pale moonlight, extremely sharp and deadly.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she asks, shocked.

"What?" Jon asks, already standing up, "Stay here. Don't come out until I say it's safe."

"Excuse me?" Sansa says, leaving the bed, "I'm not letting you fucking kill someone in our living room."

Jon rolls his eyes but relents, not saying anything as she follows him out of their bedroom. Sansa tries to see from the stairs what is happening, maybe a shadow or some movement, but it's too dark.

 _I hope Lyanna is okay,_ she thinks, suddenly remembering her goodmother who slept on the tv room.

The front door is open and two figures loom in front of it. A small, thin one holds a baseball over its head and is repeatedly beating the bigger one with it, loudly cursing in the Old Tongue. Lyanna. The bigger one, groaning in pain, moves blindly in the dark, trying to reach its attacker. Sansa runs to the wall,  blindly feeling around, trying to find the light switch, at the same time that her husband attacks, driving his knife into the invader's left shoulder.

The light turns on and she sees Lyanna, heaving with her long hair falling on her face, her arms raised over her head, ready for another strike; Jon, still holding the knife, with a murderous expression on his face and a strange man with bushy ginger hair, wearing heavy clothes meant for a much more severe winter.

Jon steps back, shocked, and so does Lyanna, widening her eyes, "Tormund," she whispers, breathless.

Tormund looks at the knife on his back, the blood slowly leaking out from underneath, and frowns, staring at Jon angrily. He says something in his gruff voice and Jon lumps over on the stairs, exhausted.

"Speak in the Common Tongue, you idiot," her husband says, "Sansa can't understand you."

Tormund doesn't even look at her, he only speaks again, this time in her language, "What the fuck? Is that the type of welcoming you give to a man of your own clan?"

"Fuck you, Tormund!" Jon shouts, "It's two in the morning and you entered my house without a warning. What should I have done? Invited you for tea and braided your hair as we catch up on the latest gossip? Are we two prissy maids who never cuss or say the word piss… As if I would risk Sansa's life that way."

Tormund stares at Jon and he stares right back, holding his gaze with unwavering strength. Minutes pass with the two men in silent and Lyanna leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, as if she knows exactly what is to happen and is not amused in any way by it.

Jon's face breaks into a smile at the same that Tormund lets out a boisterous laugh and they meet halfway with a crushing hug. "Smart boy," Tormund says, "I've taught you well."

Lyanna smiles and Sansa frowns, trying to understand what is happening. Though she spent two months in the natural reserve that Jon grew up in after her wedding, she still had a lot to learn when it came to free folk culture.

"What are you doing here, Tormund?" Jon asks, "You never leave the tribe."

"Your mother sent me a letter," Tormund explains, his words laced with a thick northern accent that made it difficult to understand him, "Said your children had been born. I came to celebrate."

"Ah," Jon murmurs, "We still have a few milestones to reach before we can celebrate. Only one of them has been discharged by the hospital. Alys. She's coming home tomorrow."

Tormund opens his mouth to say something else and Sansa jumps at the opportunity to interrupt them, still concerned by the knife protruding from Tormund's back.

"Shouldn't we take him to a hospital, Jon?" she asks, standing by Lyanna's side, "We don't know if the knife has hit any major organs or if your mother's baseball hits have ruptured anything on his stomach…"

"Bullshit, love!" Tormund bellows, "I am a man of the free folk. It will take more than a little knife to kill me." He winks at her and Sansa wonders what she was supposed to understand by that.

Lyanna laughs, "We still need to take it out, Tor, you stupid fuck."

Tormund frowns, thinking, "Why would I go to a kneeler's hospital, Lya? Huh? They stick needles inside you and drug you." He turns to Sansa, looking at her as if he's seeing her for the first time. "You're a healer. Jon's told me. You can take this out."

Sansa's eyes widen, "I'm a nurse, not a doctor…"

Tormund spits out, "Same thing, red," he says, "A kneeler is a kneeler, a healer is a healer. They don't call you a doctor thing, because you'd be too powerful."

Sansa stutters and she looks at Jon. He shrugs, "We can't get him to change his mind, but you don't have to do it if you don’t want to, baby."

Sansa licks her lips, looking at Tormund’s stabbed back, and sighs, “I’ll get my sewing kit.”

She runs upstairs and then returns, sewing kit in hand, only to find that they have moved from the entrance hall to the kitchen, where Jon and Tormund are laughing together and Lyanna nurses a bottle of whiskey. Tormund already has his shirt half-off, bundled up around his neck to reveal the knife sticking on his skin.

“I’m back,” she says, setting her kit on the table, “Have I missed anything?”

“No,” Jon answers, smiling, “Tormund was just telling how one of his sons tried to steal this girl and she bit his ear off.”

Marriage for the Free Folk is different than that for the rest of the country. The men are expected to be quite forceful with women, going so far as stealing them from their home or clan. The women, in turn, are expected to put up a fight every step of the way. If they are successful with their stealing, they are married and both have proven to each other that they are powerful and a worthy companion, not to say a strong parent that can sire healthy children. Infant mortality is still a problem north of the Wall, so brawny blood is highly valued by those who still followed the old way of their forefathers.

Once, during their early marriage years, Jon wanted to roleplay as an old wildling who came to steal her away and the memory of it brings color to Sansa’s cheeks and warmth between her legs.

“I just need to clean the needle and I’ll be ready,” she says, turning to the stove.

Sansa lights up one of the mouths and picks out a big needle, one that she hopes is thick enough to pierce through human skin. She takes a deep breath and places it on the fire for a whole minute, praying for all gods that might listen to make it sterile.

“Lyanna, can you help me?” she asks and her goodmother nods, standing up. As if she knows exactly what do, Lyanna grabs a towel and walks to Sansa’s side, “On three, okay? One, two, three.”

Sansa pulls the knife and the sound it makes is deafening as it slides out of Tormund’s back, ringing in her ears, and Lyanna is quick with the towel, pressing down on the wound to stop any possible event of Tormund bleeding out. Sansa takes a deep breath and pulls out her clean needle, placing a black thread on the hole, “This will hurt.”

“I like a little bit of pain, love,” Tormund answers, voice laced with suggestion.

“Stop flirting with my wife,” Jon retorts but he’s smiling, an obvious sign that he knows the other man is joking.

“Never,” Tormund says, “Hopefully, she will see what she is missing. I am older, more experienced in the ways of fucking. Imagine our children, kissed by fire. I’d make you happy.”

“Jon makes me happy,” Sansa says and she takes that moment to insert the needle into Tormund’s back.

He shouts and curses, quickly accepting the bottle of whiskey offered by Jon. Sansa tries to make it quick, but it’s hard to do it without any practice before and she definitely never learned how to stitch someone up. That’s a doctor’s work. But she tries to focus, remembering to join the two pieces of skin together in a subtle way so as to not leave a hideous scar, though she doubts anyone would notice considering that Tormund’s back is covered by silver-white markings, a memory of previous battles. _Jon’s the same,_ Sansa thinks, remembering her husband’s chest and back, how terrified she’d been in their first night together, sad by what she perceived to be a life of abuse, but Jon had assure her, saying that for the free folk, a scar is something to be proud of.

“It means you’ve survived something,” he had said, pointing to his first one, a thin line on his shoulder, “It means you are a strong person.”

He kissed her then and made her forget all about it.

Until now.

Sansa finishes her work with a knot, cutting away the yarn with a small scissor and she sighs, staring at his back. He looks like a doll, though she knows better than this.

“Done,” she whispers and Lyanna touches her shoulders.

“You’re so talented,” her goodmother says, “Now go to sleep. It’s late.”

Sansa feels the need to say that Lyanna is not her mother, but she keeps her mouth shut. It is late and she is tired, exhaustion weighing down her limbs. She nods and turns, placing the bloody needle on the sink and washing her hands to erase any red traces on it.

She lays on the bed afterward, eyes wide open, laying her head on her hands as she thinks. Tormund. Had Jon ever spoken of him? Somehow, she can’t remember any mention of that man. The door opens and closes with her deep in thought and the side next to her on the bed dips down with Jon’s weight. He touches her back, fingers sliding underneath her cotton shirt, and she turns to him, crawling into his open arms.

“He seems nice,” Sansa whispers, “Are you two close?”

Jon nods, “He was like a father to me growing up. Taught me everything I know.”

“How come I never heard of him?” she asks, nuzzling his neck, “Or met him when we went to the reserve?”

“I told you about him, though. He’s the one who fucked a bear and nursed on the breasts of a giantess,” Jon says and Sansa remembers the stories.

“Oh, that one.”

“Yes,” Jon says, “And he wasn’t at the reserve for those couple of months. Had some business to do with the Thenns, I believe.”

Sansa nods, hugging Jon, cuddling with him, “What did he teach you?”

Jon makes a sound and she knows that he must be smiling, though she can’t exactly see it, “How to hunt, how to skin an animal before roasting.” He takes a piece of her hair, turning it around his finger, knotting it, “When I was fourteen, he pulled me aside and said, in the Old Tongue of course, ‘Jon, you are becoming a man and I see you looking at girls, so let me teach you something. Most men fuck like dogs. No grace, no skill. A few dozen thrusts and done. You need to be patient. Give her time. Your cock shouldn't go near her till she's slick as a baby seal. And then you go inside, but slowly. Don't jam it in like you're spearing a pig.’ Scared me for life, but I kept that lesson in my heart.”

Sansa laughs and she kisses Jon’s jaw, straining her neck so that she can see him, “So should I go downstairs and thank him?”

Jon makes a face, “Or you can thank me right now.”

He kisses her, pressing their lips together, and pulls her closer. Sansa circles his neck with her arms, licking into his mouth, and she moans, suddenly realizing how much she missed him. She kisses him back as fervently as him, trying to erase the distance between their bodies.

"Gods, Sansa," he whispers, smiling against her lips, "You're going to be the death of me."

"Is that a good thing?" Sansa asks, holding his face and kissing his neck. Her teeth catch on his pulse point and she feels the beating force underneath the skin. Sansa wonders what would happen if she bit him hard enough to pierce through if he'd bleed, but Jon pulls his shirt over his body and suddenly she wonders no more.

"A good thing," he answers, "Anything with you is a good thing. If you killed me, I'd die a happy man."

Sansa stops for a second and  _looks_ at Jon. He is perfect. He stopped going to the gym frequently after she became pregnant and had acquired a bit of a dad's body, but it wasn't bad. Thick brown hairs cover his chest down to his navel, hinting at what is underneath his pants, and she sighs.

"Like what you see?" he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

"I've been married to you for almost nine years," she answers, letting her hand travel from his shoulder to his waist. She grabs him, their crotches meeting in a halfway point and he groans, "If I didn't like what I see, we'd have a problem."

He smiles and kisses her again, holding her cheeks gently. Sansa toes her socks off and tries to take off her pants, but it's kind of awkward to do it without her hands and, reluctantly, she lets her husband do it. The cold air hits her naked legs and Sansa rubs them against Jon's hairy shins, trying to steal some of his warmth.

Jon can't stay idle and still, though. He nibbles on her lower lip and her chin, traveling down her neck, "Take your shirt off," he whispers, fingering the hem.

Sansa hesitates, "No," she says, "I don't want to spill milk."

He nods but doesn't say anything else. He moves his hand from her waist down to her hips, caressing the protruding bone with his thumb, and slowly pulls her panties off. Sansa doesn't even know that he is doing it until they are halfway down.

"Condom," she whispers and Jon looks at her with wide gray eyes, "No sixth child."

"No sixth child," he repeats and kisses her again, but he doesn't move to get it. Instead, Jon covers her mound with his hand, caressing her clit with experienced motions and sticking a finger inside her.

Sansa hisses against his mouth. It's been a very long time. It doesn't hurt exactly and she can only imagine what would it be like if he had gone straight with the penetration, but it takes a while for her to be comfortable with the single digit.

Jon's patient, though, and he makes sure to continue his movement on his nub, trying to get her as wet as possible before, finally, thrusting with his finger. He separates their mouths for a second, gauging her reactions, and Sansa stares at his eyes. She can see herself in the reflection on his pupils and she looks crazy. Cheeks flushed, mouth swollen, wild hair. But still. Jon stares at her with the utmost love and respect that a woman could ever want in her lifetime.

He introduces another finger and Sansa sighs, leaning her head against the pillow. "Are you comfortable?"

"Yes," she whispers, closing her eyes slightly.  _There..._

"Does your scar hurt?" he asks and there is a worried tone on his voice.

"My scar has been healed for over a month, love" Sansa answers, "Just stop fretting and fuck me."

He laughs and kisses her again. Their lips part and his warmth is gone as he moves around the bedroom, trying to find a condom. For five years, they didn't bought them, because they wanted to conceive. When she was pregnant, they couldn't have sex so it didn't make sense to buy it, which means it would be difficult to even _ha_ _ve_ one. Sansa is worried that they'll have to postpone their first intimate night to another day when Jon checks his work blazer and aha's, holding up a square golden foil.

"Fucking college kids," he answers, walking to her, "Eighteen-year-old girls are sick."

"An eighteen-year-old girl gave you a condom?" Sansa asks, leaning back on her eyebrows.

Jon shrugs, "I told her I'm married, but she must have slipped it in when I was distracted. I don't know what she could have possibly meant for it."

"Maybe to tell you that she wants to have sex with you," Sansa answers and Jon sits next to her, pulling his pants and underwear down. His erection springs open, urgent and purple, and she looks at it, almost hypnotized by it. It's been a long time indeed. Jon opens the condom carefully and the sound reverberates around the room as he holds the latex object in his hand, ready to slip it onto his cock, "Let me." He looks at her, surprised, and Sansa smiles.

Jon hands her the condom and she holds it, careful not to rip it accidentally. Without looking at her husband, Sansa puts the protection on him, her hand traveling down his length. He sighs when she doesn't remove it, pressing with her fingers as she goes up and down his dick, and groans with a particular twist of her wrist.

"She even got the size right," Sansa murmurs, almost surprised, "Should I be concerned?"

"No," Jon answers, cheeks flushed and in between moans, "You're the only woman for me."

"You'll have to talk with her on Monday," Sansa murmurs, her thumb gliding over his head. She holds his erection in place and adjusts her hips slightly, "Thank her for saving our night."

"Yes," Jon answers, "Thank you, Kyra."

"Thank you, Kyra," Sansa repeats and she gets up and sits on him, his cock sliding inside her. She groans low, holding his shoulders for support, and Jon falls back, overwhelmed with feeling.

Sansa tries to go slowly, to make it last, but it's been such a long time and neither of them can handle it much longer. Not only is their first time after the pregnancy, but also, their first time where they weren't fucking just to get pregnant, just for the end product, but because they wanted to because they were two consenting adults who loved each other. But mainly, because they really wanted to fuck.

It's over rather quickly, but it's no less satisfying. Jon places his hands where they are joined, rubbing her nub with his finger and she moves faster, wanting to fight back. She couldn't exactly let him win.

He cums first, spilling inside the condom, but she quickly follows him over the edge, hitting her peak with a strangled shout so as to not wake up the other inhabitants of the house. She falls over Jon's chest, hiding her face on the curve of his neck, and tries to regain her breath.

Jon caresses her bottom, "I love you."

"I love you too," she answers.

* * *

Alys comes home. And then Brandon. Amma and Torrhen come together before finally Mya is discharged. In the span of three weeks, they go from one baby to five and a nursery explodes on their house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to develop the wildling culture beyond the whole "warring, strong women, feminism, no kneeling" aspect that we have on the show/books. hope yall like it.
> 
> I CANT WRITE A SEX SCENE. IM SORRY.
> 
> the next chapter will have all the babies at home. im sorry i didnt write more scenes in the nicu but its too sad.
> 
> UPDATE (08/17/19): As it turns out, I can write a sex scene. Lol. Also, what I said about 18 year olds, I say as an 18 year old. We're sick fucks. I know a guy who grabbed our maths' teacher's dick and I'm still in high school.


	3. Chapter Three

Jon looked around him, trying to take in his new surroundings. Tall walls painted midnight blue. A large bed with black covers. White, silky curtains. Two shelves filled to the brim with books. He took a step in their direction and saw that none of the titles are familiar to him, though he didn't expect that they would. It's not like his captors wanted him to enjoy his time there.

Jon sighed, tugging on the collar of his shirt. The clothes given to him at the airport were too itchy, too _fake_ on his skin. He wouldn't have changed into them had the temperature not been too high for his furs. He'd rather keep as much as he could from home.

He looked out the window, pulling the curtains aside and saw a wide, green plane, greener than anything he'd ever seen. Jon can see a lake on the far distance, with clear pristine water, the edge of a forest and a camp of wildflowers. By straining his hearing, he could hear the faint sound of cars from somewhere not too far.

However, no matter how much he tried, Jon can't find anything familiar enough to take him back home.

If he only remembered… All he can recall is his mother, screaming and attacking a silver-haired man with her dagger, telling him to run to Tormund and two other men, bigger than anyone he'd ever seen, grabbing him before he could even leave their tent, injecting something into him. Jon woke up hours later on a plane, seated next to the silver-haired man that called himself Rhaegar.

After the plane landed, they drove there on a large black hour, the two big men on either side of Jon to stop him from doing something irrational. Like killing Rhaegar and trying to find his way back home.

Jon gave that idea upon the airport when he realized they took all of his weapons away, so he tried to behave.

He stuck his head out the window and saw that a fall from that room would mean a broken leg, probably a broken arm, though Jon already managed to escape a pack of wolves with more injuries. It wouldn't be too hard, except how he would survive on unfamiliar territory? How he would find his way back to the tribe?

The door opened before he could think of anything and a girl walked in. Jon had seen his fair share of girls during his fifteen years alive and he could say that this one was not ordinary.

She had skinny legs and thin arms, with buckled teeth. Her long, pale white hair was in a braid that fell on her back and she was holding a black cat. She had wide and round violet eyes that seemed to stare straight into his soul. She wore a black tank top and blue shorts. Fourteen years old, if his calculations were correct.

She said something in that weird language of those south of the Wall and Jon frowned, extremely confused.

She said it again, sitting on top of a desk near a wall, crossing her legs. She frowned slightly, leaning her head, and Jon felt as if he was naked in front of her, as bare and vulnerable as the day that he was born. 

A gleaming smile cut open her pale face, "Dany," she said, touching her chest, "Dany." She touched her chest again. "Balerion." She tapped the cat's head.

 _Dany._ That must be her name. Was she a prisoner just like him? Was Rhaegar her captor too? How many others were there, children stolen from their mothers by a monster with indigo eyes?

Dany smiled and she didn't seem like a prisoner, though they rarely do.

"Jon," he said. _I'm Jon._

* * *

This article is about Rodrik Stark, son of Sansa Stark. For other people named Rodrik Stark, see Rodrik Stark (disambiguation).

_Rodrik Stark, 999th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch (311 A.C - Unknown) was the second son of Queen Sansa of House Stark and an unnamed man. Rodrik was born in Winterfell, on his mother's 25th nameday. The identity of his father is still a mystery eight hundred years later, with many historians determined to solve such case._

_Prince Rodrik grew up in Winterfell with his elder brother, later King Athos of House Stark, and his younger sister, Eddara, Queen of the Six Kingdoms. At the age of eighteen, Rodrik would join the fabled Night's Watch, reportedly due to the influence of his half-uncle, Jon Snow, who had been exiled after the killing of Queen Daenerys Targaryen._

_Despite the disbandment of the Night's Watch after his uncle's death at the age of seventy-five (see Jon Snow's page for more information), Rodrik Stark would declare himself Lord Commander, the last one to do so. Since never taking the official vows of the black cloaks, Rodrik married Marra of Thenn and had five sons with her, siring a new line of Magnars closely related to the Kings in the North. He reportedly joined his wife's entourage, disappearing beyond the wall, taking the bastard sword Longclaw with him._

* * *

Sansa hits the bathroom door with her closed fists as hard as she can, repeating it twice and then another time, "Jon!"

"What?" her husband answers, his voice muffled by the shower.

"We have three crying babies with stinking diapers and one that needs cuddles and love. Your five minutes in the bathroom are up!" She can hear Amma, Mya, and Brandon wailing from over their nurseries, Lyanna's quick steps as she attempts to delegate her time between them. If she strains her ears just enough, Sansa can also notice Alys, whimpering quietly, wanting to be held. She looks at Torrhen, sucking his finger and being held by one of her arms as the only child not crying, blinking his baby blue eyes. He drools all over her and she doesn't mind. It's one of the perks of being a mother.

Jon curses and turns off the shower. Sansa rocks Torrhen, trying not to step on Lady, who decided to wait for her daddy to leave the bathroom by laying on the ground like a thick fur rug.

The door opens briskly and Jon walks out, a towel hanging lowly from his hips. Sansa steps back as he towers over her, black curls falling damply on his face.

"Here," Sansa says, handing him Torr, "I need to pee."

Jon huffs but does as he's told. Sansa quickly runs inside the restroom before Ghost can follow her and closes the door, locking it tightly. She hears Jon step away, carrying her son with him; she hears Lyanna singing a wildling lullaby to her children, whispering softly at them; and her daughters, sobbing loudly, always wanting or needing something. Crying babies have become the norm at her house and, despite it all, she still hasn't quite managed to gain the skill of being unaffected by it.

The babies have been home for two weeks now and Sansa doesn't know how much longer she can handle. She lays her forehead on the cold door, allowing the tears to flow freely down her cheeks. Life with five kids is hard, she knewthat, but to know one thing and actually live it is completely different.

She's lucky if she gets one hour of sleep each night. She's running on coffee and take out meals. Everywhere she looks there is a baby needing their mother and it's not like she can just no. Sansa wanted this so much, she wanted these quintuplets with all her heart and she loves them very much, but they are ruining her.

Sansa slowly slides down the door, sitting on the cold marble floor. She doesn't actually have to pee. She just needs some time alone.

Once, when her anxiety became so unbearable that she could barely go to school for fear of failure, her grandmother told her to close her eyes, count to three and take a deep breath and the entire world would be different once she reopened them. Fourteen-year-old Sansa thought Lyarra Stark was being foolish, but it won't hurt Thirty-Two-year-old Sansa to try.

She closes her eyes and the world goes dark around her. One… Two… Three.

Sansa opens it and the world is still the same. The same white marble tiles, the same powder blue walls and the same background crying noise.

She gets up and steps away from the door, rubbing her cheeks angrily, and turns to the sink, quickly opening the faucet. She's selfish. So selfish. Her babies are waiting for her, needing her and there she is, silently crying in the bathroom. Sansa places her hand underneath the tap. The water is cold on her hands and she allows it to run down her fingers, five single lines joining at the sink. She takes a deep breath, calming herself down and she unlocks the door, ready to throw herself out there.

Sansa walks back to the living room, where the babies are stationed since they came home. Lyanna is changing the diaper of an infant with a purple band around their head. Mya. Jon has one baby trapped on a sling wrapped around his chest and another on his arms, nursing on a big, half-empty bottle.

"Hey," Jon says and his face is gentle, "Can you go upstairs and grab a new shirt? Alys barfed all over hers."

He must know what happened. He knows she was crying. Sansa touches her cheeks. They are dry, so how could he possibly…

 _He's my husband,_ Sansa thinks, sated, _That's his job._

"Of course," she answers and, as quickly as she arrived, Sansa leaves the room once more.

* * *

**Daenerys Targaryen Releases a New Collection (WITH PICTURES)**

_Daenerys Targaryen, CEO of Dany Cosmetics and a known YouTuber/make-up guru with more than 15,000,000 followers, has officially released a new collection without any sort of promotion beforehand. The product, which consists of two different eyeshadow palettes; nine lipstick colors; three lip scrubs; two highlighters, plus a new addition of fifteen shades to her foundation line, which has already been revered for its inclusive colors._

_The collection, called Rainbow Baby, was made available at midnight in KLT, following a tweet by Daenerys that already has over a hundred and two thousand retweets._

__

_While some wonder what inspired the name, most are too busy choosing their new shades to care, so much so that her website crashed after so many orders being filled at the same time. Daenerys has yet to reveal why she kept all of this a secret, but a new video is expected on her youtube channel soon, as she never goes a launch without revealing her thoughts behind the product. Perhaps her nephew’s children, who have each been assigned a color, according to reports, is what drove her to this._

* * *

“Alright,” Sansa says, standing by the sink, “Quintuplet Bath Assembly Line. Let’s begin.” She takes a deep breath and points to her goodmother, crouched down near the babies, who are napping away at their little swings. “Lyanna, you’re on undressing duty. Take their clothes off and hand them to me. I’m on washing and bathing duty. Jon, you’re on diaper and new clothes duty.” Her husband nods, serious, “It won’t be easy. Bathing one baby is already hard, but five? It’s nearly impossible. But I know we can do this, so let’s begin.”

Sansa turns the sink on, feeling with her hands the water temperature until it’s warm enough as to not frighten the babies. She places a large, yellow sponge on the form of a flower in the sink, allowing a small puddle of water to accumulate. Lyanna gets closer, holding a baby with a blue band around his head, and Sansa takes Brandon, squirting lavender liquid soap on her hand. He blinks his eyes as she cleans him up, scrubbing away all the poop, spit-up and vomit that somehow, without her realizing, have accumulated in the past hour since they decided to get ready for bath time. She hands him off to Jon, who wraps him with a cloth towel, and takes the new infant in Lyanna’s arms. This one has a purple headband on. Mya.

“Oh, _flaggen,_ ” Lyanna curses, making a face, “She pooped on my hand.”

Sansa picks Mya as Lyanna runs to the second sink, quickly washing her hand before returning to the other babies. Jon is done with applying lotion to Brandon’s skin and he is crying, upset at being naked and, most likely, cold, even though all the windows are closed and the heater is on as Jon picks up a new onesie for him.

“Don't you poop in there,” Sansa says, rubbing her soapy hand on Mya’s back. She is done before Jon, though, and she stands with her daughter as Jon struggles with a gray sleeve. When he is over, he places Brandon back on his swing before giving her to him and taking the new baby waiting for a bath. She has a yellow band, signaling that she is Alys.

Sansa tries to go slowly to help Jon since his part takes the most time, and Alys does her best to assist as well, crying and struggling to stay still as Sansa cleans between her rolls. She’s a chubby one and they need to take extra care in her legs and neck. Lyanna, however, doesn’t get the memo, and she holds a naked Torrhen, tapping her foot impatiently.

Jon takes Alys and quickly puts a new diaper on her. Sansa picks Torrhen, adjusting his green headband and gently guiding the stream of water to his tummy. “You like bath time, don't you?” Torrhen seems so relaxed, so calm that it’s no surprise that he goes back to sleep before Sansa hands him to Jon, “Lya, when you’re done with Amma, can you start with their bottles, please?”

“Of course, dear,” Lyanna answers, already handing Amma to her.

Sansa cleans Amma’s face and her hair, rubbing lavender soap on the thin auburn locks covering her small head. Amma's tiny fingers close around Sansa's bracelet that Jon gave to her for their last wedding anniversary and she chuckles, cleaning her chubby legs. Lyanna opens one of their kitchen cabinets and pulls out the can of baby formula.

Sansa closes the tap and hands Amma to Jon. She looks around, almost expecting a new baby to be handed to her, and sees four of her five little ones laying on their swings, waiting for their bottles. They seem content, almost happy, and she wants to scream.

Her house has an open space, with no walls or doors separating the living room and the kitchen. Since all of the quints came home, bath time on the kitchen sink has become the norm for the Snow babies.

“Here,” Lyanna says, holding four bottles in her hand, “Divide and conquer, isn’t that what the kids say?”

Sansa nods and takes two bottles, filled to the halfway mark with milk, before crouching down near Brandon and Mya. Mya is still wide awake, but her brother has gone back to sleep, unbothered by the whole “being fed means being alive” business.

“Love, wake up,” Sansa says, touching his socked foot, “Wake up, baby. It’s dinner time.”

She used one of her hands to place a bottle between Mya’s lips while using the other one to rouse Brandon up with another bottle. His tiny eyes didn’t open, but he turned his head to the plastic teat, quickly starting to suckle. Sansa tries to adjust her hips, her position wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it is impossible to do so without disrupting the babies, so she forces herself to relax as much as she could without moving the bottles. Mya and Brandon eat in silent and Mya rolls her eyes back, drunk in the milk. Lyanna seems to be doing fine with Torrhen and Alys, while Jon sits on the couch, rocking Amma.

That is life with quintuplets. Three people needed just for bathing and feeding. How will they manage when Lyanna leaves when the quints start crawling or walking? Sansa doesn’t want to think about that.

Mya is done before Brandon so Sansa places the bottle aside and takes her in her arms, placing her on her shoulder and gently tapping her back. Her daughter weakly moves her arms around, sated, and grabs a fistful of Sansa’s hair, holding on to it for dear life. Minutes pass without any success and, before she realizes it, Sansa is holding two babies, trying to make them burp. 

Tormund has left. He didn’t like to stay so much time away from his people and his land. Lyanna watched him leave with a sad gaze, not one that told that they were lovers, but one that said, _Take me with you._ It wouldn’t take long before the Snow matriarch got fed up with the “south” and decided to return home.

Sansa looks at Jon and sees him whispering to Amma, smiling sweetly at their daughter. He doesn’t talk much about it, but she knows that he longs for his birthplace, for the fresh snow falling on trees older than her bloodline, for the familiarity between each man and woman and for so many other things. _Did he want to say yes for his mother, when she asked him to return, but he refused because of me?_

“The day I met you, do you remember?, was the day I realized I had saved up enough money to go back to the reserve and I fell hopelessly in love, so I had to make a choice. My old life or you,” he had said, almost a lifetime ago.

Would she say yes if he asked her to live on the reservation? _Could_ she live on the reservation? Could she raise five children in a strange place?

But isn't that exactly what Jon is doing? Raising five children in a strange place?

He looks up and sees her. Sansa smiles, so to not arouse any suspicion, and he smiles back.

“I love you,” she says, choking back on her words.

“I love you too,” Jon answers, frowning, “Are you alright?”

Sansa nods, “I’m just a little tired.”

Jon smiles, tightly, and she sees the dark bags underneath his eyes, a signal that he is just as tired as she is. 

Brandon burps, laying his head on Sansa's shoulder to sleep and she smiles, kissing his downy, soft hair. He's so calm, so easygoing. Unlike his brother, he never cried and never had any trouble sleeping. She wished they could all be like him. Carefully, Sansa places him back on his swing and pushes a tiny, plush wolf near his head. His thin fingers reach out, grabbing the gray fuzzy ear.

"Good boy," Sansa whispers, "Have sweet dreams, Bran."

Sansa stands on shaking legs, walking to the couch, and sits, leaning her back on a couple of cushions. Lyanna has two bottles on her hands, balancing the feedings of Torrhen and Alys while Jon rocks Amma, patting her gently. Mya whimpers and Sansa rubs her back.

Her eldest is a little more sensitive. She likes to be held and she only goes to sleep after hours of being rocked by someone, never on her own. A cuddler, if anything.

"Magygerrik," Lyanna says, pointing to herself. Torrhen has his tiny stretched in front of him, trying to grab handfuls of her loose hair. For every day that passed, Torr proved himself to be more and more curious of his surroundings. "Magygerrik."

"Magygerrik means grandmother?" Sansa asks, confused.

"Father's mother," Lyanna answers, "But same thing." She shrugs.

Lady strides in, sniffing the floor and stops in front of Alys' swing, laying down on the ground and turning on her back. Her eight pink nipples are a stark contrast against her grey furs and Sansa huffs, angry. _Show off._

* * *

"Zaldrīzes dohaeriros iskos daor _,"_ Jon murmured, looking out the window. He rubbed his fingers on the paper in front of him, willing the words to disappear, but nothing actually happened, "A dragon is not a slave."

" _Iksos_ ," the tutor corrected, hitting his shoulder with a ruler. The touch of it stung and Jon sighed, closing his eyes at the sharp bite, "Try again, Jaehaerys."

Jon huffed, "Zaldrīzes dohaeriros _iksos_ daor," he repeated, angry, "And my name is not Jaehaerys."

"That's the name your father gave you," the man answered, "Jaehaerys Targaryen, like the Old Wise King."

 _No,_ he thought, bitter and resentful, _Sixteen years ago, the name my mother gave me at her breast was Jon._

Jon looked out the window where the green fields of the Dornish Marches stretched beyond Summerhall, where his clan laid hidden amidst the snow. _And I'll return to her one day._

 

* * *

Sansa rocks Amma to sleep, holding her close. She has her mouth open, baby gray eyes huddled with sleep, pouting. Jon is on the other side of the room, cuddling with Mya, and she strides in front of the window, taking advantage of the closed glass.

"Sweet Amma," Sansa whispers, stroking her daughter's cheek, "Sweet, innocent girl. My daughter, my Amma."

Her head is covered in thin wisps of reddish hair and Sansa knows that they will become as auburn as hers when she grows older. Her twin sister is already asleep, napping away on her cot, and Amma seems eager to follow in Alys' foosteps.

Sansa looks up, intent on closing the curtains to block any outside from invading the girls' room when she sees Lyanna Snow kneeling on the snow, surrounded by the trees on their backyard. Her goodmother has her head bowed and she is rocking slightly.

"What's she doing out there?" Sansa asks, turning to her husband, "The news said we'd have negative temp tonight."

Jon puts Mya in her crib, giving her a pacifier. He walks to Sansa, a questioning look on his face, and stops behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. He frowns, bending down to see his mother.

"Praying," Jon answers, "She's been doing it every night now. Let her be."

Sansa nods and Amma finally, _finally,_ goes to sleep, sucking on her lower lip. She holds Amma for a few more minutes, to make sure that she is actually sleeping, before putting on her own crib placed near the red wall. Amma sleeps on her back, with a thick cover to protect her from the arrival of winter in the next few days.

Once, winter would last years, a lifetime even, with children born and dead in the snow. But the White Wolf and his pack destroyed the Others for good during the mythical War of Dawn, bringing winter to its knees. Now, the cold times would last only a few months and there was enough time on a year for all seasons to shine.

Winter is still unforgiving, but more manageable.

Sansa waits for Lyanna on the tv room where she has made herself a little den. Her goodmother enters with a solemn face, wearing her night furs. She shakes off the snow and settles down on a couch, pulling a white blanket over her. Her gray-streaked brown hair is tied on a thick ponytail and her face is clean.

"What do you pray for, Lyanna?" Sansa asks, not wanting to talk around the subject.

Her goodmother blinks, not expect the question, and Sansa holds her gaze fiercely. "Protection," Lyanna answers, "Health for your children and my son. I pray for many things, but those are mostly it."

Sansa frowns, "My children are healthy, Lya. They aren't in the NICU anymore. There's nothing to worry about." She pauses, licking her lips, "And Jon is strong as a boar. Nothing can bring him down."

Lyanna smiles, but it feels a little sad, "A mother can never be too sure." She bends her head slightly. "Have I ever told you about my daughter?"

Sansa blinks, letting out a breath that she didn't know she was holding, "A-a daughter?"

Lyanna nods, "She had yellow hair and a laugh that could warm a thousand hearts. She was always running, always smiling. Such a happy child. Her father was a hunter from my clan, he was good to me and Jon and I loved him."

"What happened to her?" Sansa asks.

"The Shivers," Lyanna murmurs and Sansa shudders, thinking about the disease. Children with blue lips, women begging for more blankets and doctors desperately trying to save men who couldn't stop convulsing. It's horrible even with modern medicine, she can't imagine what it must be like on the reservation without vaccines or proper care.

"I'm sorry," Sansa says, taking Lyanna's hand, "I can't fathom how hard that must have been."

"The pain becomes more bearable as the years go on," her goodmother answers, "She was two at the time, and Jon was twelve. He doesn't like talking about it, you must forgive him for never telling you."

"What was her name?"

"She never got a name," Lyanna answers, sadly, "It's bad luck to name a child before they are two and when her birth date came, I was too worried about the sickness to think about it." She raises her head, gray eyes glinting in the pale light, "I called her many things, though, milk names. My favorite was _Torak_ , flower."

"Like Mya," Sansa whispers, "You told me her name means Flower in the Old Tongue."

Lyanna nods.

"My girl will live on through yours," she says, "If that is the will of the Gods."

"You were praying outside," Sansa murmurs, "If you wanted to, we could have driven you to the Ruins. There's a heart tree there, it wouldn't be a problem."

Lyanna smiles, patting her shoulder, "Thank you, dear."

* * *

_At the beginning of this week, the governor-elect Eddard Stark welcomed me into his home for an exclusive interview. For three hours, I drove into the outskirts of Winterfell until I arrived in the Stark Estate, a 10 acres terrain with a 21527 square feet house that seemed taken out a fairytale._

_Eddard Stark won the elections earlier this semester after a gruesome campaign against Roose Bolton, an up and coming senator who promised many new reforms that caused controversy amongst the LGBT Community and feminist groups._

_Many attribute Stark's win to his son Brandon, a famous YouTuber and influencer that has used his platform to promote his father. Despite disagreements in that area, it's safe to say that the Stark family pleases many in the North. Brandon has been on a steady relationship with Jojen Reed, who used to be his caretaker, for many years now, while Eddard's two eldest children, Robb and Sansa, are married with children, maintaining the image of a perfect family with good morals. Careful to follow his party's conservative values while not alienating the liberals, Eddard promises a new vision to his second election, with many reforms taking place in both education and health systems._

_His wife, Catelyn, the dean at the University of Winterfell, opened the door for me, looking straight out of a magazine with a blue dress from Volantene's designer, Nyessos Vhassar. At the age of fifty-eight, Catelyn Stark still retains the auburn hair from her youth. She led me inside her house to her husband's office, where Eddard awaited me._

**I:** First of all, how are you, sir?

 **E:** I'm very well, thank you. How about you?

 **I:** Fine. We are a couple of weeks away from your first day in your second tenure as governor. How are the preparations?

 **E:** They are well on their way. My speech is nearly ready.

 **I:** Really? Could you give us a small preview? Your speech when you first came to office four years ago was memorable, sir.

 **E:** I'm sorry, but no (laughs). My wife would kill me if I let anything out. Let's just say that it's inspired by my family.

 **I:** You have become a grandfather again. Your daughter, Sansa, gave birth to the first set of surviving quintuplets in the country. How has that been?

 **E:** Tiring, I'd say. Every time I visit her, I feel overwhelmed. Five babies are a lot, but I believe in my daughter. I know she and her husband can handle it.

 **I:** Marvelous. What do you think will be your first decision made as governor next year?

 **E:** Probably a continuation of my reforms on education. Our proud and old land has terrible statics when it comes to literacy and graduation rates. My plan is to remedy that.

 **I:** And your grandchildren are surely the inspiration behind that?

 **E:** Of course!

 **I:** Is there any truth to the rumor that you're considering a run for president in the future?

 **E:** I prefer to maintain my eyes in state affairs, not federal, though who can say anything about the future?

 **I:** The Harvest Feast is coming up. How will you celebrate it, sir?

 **E:** With my family. The Stark family Harvest Feast’s dinner is always a night to remember. 

* * *

"This is Aegon VI," Daenerys said, pointing to a portrait on the wall, "He conquered Westeros, uniting the Seven Kingdoms once more. His father was Rhaegar the Last Dragon's son, also named Aegon."

Jon nodded, following her closely. Daenerys was the one who wanted to see the Portrait's Corridor in the Red Keep, not him. Still, he couldn't exactly be expected to be alone while his paternal family visited their forefathers' ancestral home. Dany was his only companion and that means doing what shewanted to do.

He could hear his grandmother trying to coax Rhaenys to see the king's chambers, their voices echoing around the castle. His sister's desperate replies rung in his ears.

"No, I don't want to, I want to go home, please, _no!"_

"This is Daenerys," Dany murmured, oblivious to him. She stopped, raising her head to look at her namesake. She scratched her chin, silver hair falling on her tanned naked shoulders, and smiled, "She went to Dorne to make peace. We should go to Dorne one day, I've never been there."

"I've never been there either," Jon admitted, shyly.

"Nice!" Daenerys said, smiling. She had begun wearing braces that year and chose purple, her favorite color, for the little plastic rings, "We'll go together one day. Just us. Not even Rhaegar will come. You and me, together in Dorne." She took his hand, lacing their fingers together.

Daenerys continued walking, pulling him by the hand and Jon allowed himself to be lead. They walked along the corridor, seeing the portraits of strong men, beautiful women, and smiling children. There were two with brown hair, _Robert I Baratheon, the Usurper and Brandon_ _I Ravenstark, the Broken,_ Jon didn’t really know who they were. History forgot them. The rest were silver or golden-haired, mostly members of House Targaryen, except two whose engraving underneath their portrait, had been eroded away by time. _T mm n I B ra heon_ and _Jof ey I Bara T._

“Here,” Dany said, stopping in front of a portrait of a couple. A handsome man with long silver hair and beard and a beautiful woman, her silver hair bound in a tight low bun, blue eyes glinting, “Jaehaerys I and his sister-wife, Alysanne. They were in love, nothing could stop them from being together, not even the law. Their mother tried to stop them from marrying, but Jaehaerys and Alysanne traveled to Dragonstone to wed secretly.”

Jon looked up, “They seem regal.”

Daenerys giggled, “Of course they seem regal, they were the king and queen.” She looked at him, biting her lip, “What do you think, Jae?”

Jon bristled but said nothing. Jae had become her nickname for him when his father, when _Rhaegar,_ legally changed his name from Jon Snow to Jaehaerys Targaryen without even asking him. Surely, she wanted to be nice to him and obedient to her brother, but it only served to upset him and remember what he had lost.

“I don’t know,” he answered, unable to put in Common Tongue words what he thought, “What am I supposed to think?”

Daenerys sighed, disappointed, “Nothing, Jaehaerys. You are supposed to think nothing.”

* * *

_King Athos Stark (308 A.C - 388 A.C) was a King in the North, Lord of Winterfell and head of House Stark before the Second Targaryen Conquest._

_He ruled the North in relative peace for ten years until his reign was threatened by Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name. Instead of going to war, Athos betrothed his sister, Eddara, to Aegon, and married the Targaryen king's sister, Jaehaera, uniting the two kingdoms once more._

_He had seven children with his wife in what came to be a happy marriage despite their age difference. Four reached adulthood and only one outlived him, his firstborn son, Jon Stark, named after his half-uncle who, despite his exile beyond the Wall, fostered good relationships with the children of Queen Sansa. All three of them would honor him in some way during their lives._

* * *

Sansa closes her robe around her body, tightening the thick fabric with a lilac cord around her waist. She looks out the window, seeing him sitting on their porch, head bent forward as he works on a makeshift bow. The babies are asleep, a brief moment of respite in the chaos that has become their house, and she takes advantage of it, opening the door that leads to their backyard and walking out of their house, the cold winter air swirling around her, freezing her damp freshly out of the shower hair. 

Jon looks up, smiling when he sees her, and drops the bow and the kitchen knife in his hand.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says, winking.

“Hey,” she answers, sitting by his side, “It’s cold.”

“Yes,” Jon murmurs, “You should get back inside.”

Sansa smiles, laying her head on her hand. Jon is so protective, it could be annoying to some, but she knows that he’ll never cross a line and upset her feelings so. They can both take of themselves, they are grown-ups, but it doesn’t hurt to take care of one’s spouse.

“I will when you come back with me.” Jon protects her in his way and Sansa protects him on her own. She sighs, figuring it’s best to approach the subject sooner than later, “Your mother is packing her things.”

Jon nods, “I know. She told me this morning that she was leaving.”

Sansa frowns, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was thinking, I’m sorry,” he says, “It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t worry,” Sansa murmurs.

He takes her hand, blowing hot air on her fingers, warming them up. Jon is wearing full winter gear, with gloves and a wool hat. Sansa is more naked, more exposed, and she can’t stay out very long without risking herself.

“She doesn’t belong here,” Jon says, “She is a free woman. Her place is out there, in the wild.”

Sansa doesn’t say anything. She looks at his bow, the one he’s been working on for hours. It’s made in the Free Folk fashion, with feathers and a weirwood arch and she wonders for how long he’s been hiding it.

“She told you that?” Sansa asks, leaning forward and setting her head on his shoulder.

“No,” Jon says, “ _I_ told her that. She’s the clan mother, a leader. Her place isn’t here with us.”

Sansa looks down, at their laced hands, and looks back at him, his handsome profile. Jon trimmed his beard earlier that morning at her request and he looked less like a wildling and more like her father, a businessman, head of the household. _The day I met you, do you remember?, was the day I realized I had saved up enough money to go back to the reserve and I fell hopelessly in love, so I had to make a choice. My old life or you._

“And you want to go back with her,” Sansa says, looking away from him, “But you can’t because of me.”

Jon bristles and turns to her, eyes wide with shock. She knows that he wasn’t expecting such a question from her, but it’s the truth. Jon is her husband, he can’t hide anything from her, she sees him for who he is. 

“What?” he asks, shocked.

Sansa looks up, at his dark gray eyes, at his long face, the face that her sons have underneath all of that baby fat. Brandon and Torrhen take after him, Sansa knows it, she’s known it since the day that they cut them out from her, when she first looked at their thin dark brown hair, their pointy chins and their tiny first men hands.

“You told me yourself,” she murmurs and tears come to her eyes. He looks at her with so much love, with so much trust that she can’t give him what he wants, what he has always wanted, “You had to choose. Me or the tribe. And I know your mother offered you a second choice again, back when I was pregnant. She wanted us to live on the reservation. And then when Rhaegar came, she told you to return, to get away from him by hiding there, isn’t that right? And you said no because of me because I don’t know how to live as a free woman, I wouldn’t survive out there.”

“What are you talking about?” he says, “My mother never asked me to return when Rhaegar…”

“I heard you two fighting,” Sansa answers, “In my hospital room. You two were talking in the Old Tongue, but I heard my own name and Rhaegar’s. She asked you to come home like she always does.”

“Sansa, you got it all wrong,” he murmurs, holding her face between his hands, “She wants me to return, yes, but that day in the hospital, she wasn’t asking meto go back. I was.”

“What?”

“I thought, if we hid there, all seven of us, Rhaegar wouldn’t take our children away. My mother made me see reason,” Jon gulps. “Beyond the Wall is no place to raise the quints. They were small prematures and who knows what health problems they will have in the future. Asthma, celiacs, gastritis. Here, we can have all the medical assistance they might need. There, they don’t even have vaccines.” He rubs his thumb on her cheek, caressing her skin and Sansa leans into his touch, chasing his love, “If we stay here, they can have a good education, _opportunities._ Brandon, Torrhen, Mya, Amma, and Alys can be whoever they want to be. The tribe doesn’t have much to offer in terms of that.”

“B-but that’s your home!” Sansa says and she doesn’t know why she insists on that subject, why she wants him to leave her so bad. Self-sabotage is a bitch, “Your people!”

“You’re my home,” Jon replies and he leans their forehead together, “You have always been my home.”

Sansa closes her eyes and she feels as if a weight has been lifted off of her shoulders. She kisses Jon, licking into his mouth and he kisses her back, enveloping her body with his. His warmth radiates to her, warming her up and Sansa mewls like a cat, hugging him.

She’s okay. They are okay.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany deals with her family's problem.
> 
> Sansa struggles with Torrhen.

Sansa clicks her tongue, swirling the Arbor Gold around her glass, and looks at her husband, watching him at work.

Jon is hunched over his desk at their shared office (though he’s the one to mostly use it, anyway), grading papers from his second-year class. She can see his tense back, the strained shoulders, and the knotted neck.

He’s been at it for hours, carefully reading his student’s paragraphs about the Dornish wars, and Sansa is starting to become annoyed with it all. He should have a TA doing this for him, a student that he can trust to grade others, but Jon trusts no one at his job. She suspects her mother is at fault. When your goodmother is the one who gave you work, you will want to prove her right about you, never casting doubt on your own abilities.

She takes a sip of her wine. For the past weeks, wines have become a must at her household. No mother of five can survive without it. She lays back on the little sofa, an insistence of Jon who wanted to have a comfortable reading spot, and coughs, loudly, in an attempt to draw his attention back to her. 

Jon, like always, shows no sign of taking notice of it.

“Jon,” Sansa calls.

“Yes?” he asks, not looking at her.

“Come here.”

Jon looks up and smiles, watching her drink her wine with hungry eyes, but he doesn’t even move. Her husband turns back to the papers, picking up a red pen and writing a _45 - Talk to me later_ with his careful handwriting. Sansa sighs and finishes the Arbor Gold, tired of it all.

He takes another hour to finish his grading and Sansa is already on her fourth glass of wine, tipsy enough to be funny, but not yet drunk. The quints are asleep, they have begun sleeping through the night, and she has nothing to worry about when the baby monitors are safely tucked in her arms; she has two of them: one for the girls’ room, one for the boys.

When he ends, Jon stands up and walks to his bookshelf and picks up a large copy of _A Historical Analysis of Queen Sansa I’s Reign, by Maester Archibald._ He sighs, opening it on a marked page and plops down next to her, pulling her feet to his lap.

Sansa wants to scream. The babies are asleep, Ghost and Lady are too, in their little beds in the kitchen, and he is reading? Can’t he see that she needs attention? A little love, a little sympathy?

“A girl came to see me today,” he murmurs when Sansa is about to complain of his lack of ‘interest’ in her.

She blinks, “What girl?”

Jon shrugs, still looking at his book, “I’ve never met her. Her name was Wylla Manderly. She’s the one who made that post… I think it was called, ‘Why Jon Snow is the father of Queen Sansa's children’. I sent you the link.”

Sansa remembers that one. Though not as knowledgeable in the field of history as Jon, she had paid enough attention in school to know who the first Sansa Stark had been and why Jon Snow couldn’t be the father of her children. They were raised as siblings, for fuck’s sake.

At the end of her post, she mentioned meeting Jon. It seems like she finally came true with her prediction.

“Did she want to talk to you about Sansa and Jon?” she asks, confused. Maybe she shouldn’t have drunk that much wine.

“In a way,” he says. Jon sighs, taking off his reading glasses and dragging a hand down his face. He seems exhausted and Sansa wonders what Wylla Manderly said to have such an effect on her husband, “She brought evidence, reports made by Sansa’s maester and letters sent from Sansa to her brother, King Brandon. The children’s ages, personalities. Everything.”

“She certainly did her homework,” Sansa murmurs and Jon laughs, dryly.

“Yes. Certainly.” He licks his lips and sets down his book, “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Wylla?” Sansa asks, confused.

“No,” Jon says and he looks at her, his gray eyes boring into her, “Sansa.”

“Yes?” she says and Jon smiles, almost mockingly.

She realizes it with a sigh. He wasn’t talking to her.

“Why can’t you stop thinking about her?” she asks, trying to divert the subject back to the old wolf queen.

Jon sighs and lays back on the couch, his head hitting the beige wall behind them, and Sansa sits up, removing her legs from his lap.

“She suffered so much,” he says, “Being a girl in those times…” Jon shakes his head, “It was not easy.”

“It’s still not easy being a girl today,” Sansa says and she doesn’t know exactly why she felt the need to say that, but perhaps the image of her three little girls, Mya, Amma, and Alys, in her head was the motivation behind it. Their lives will certainly be easier than her own had been, but not as easy as their brothers’.

“I know,” Jon says, “But back then, being a girl was being a property. A father would sell his daughters to the highest bidder as if they were broodmares.” His face twists into an expression of anguish and Sansa’s heart breaks a little. He must also be thinking of their little girls. Jon loved their daughters with all of his heart, “Sansa was the eldest daughter of the warden of the North. Her father promised her in marriage when she was only eleven and to a horrible boy. Joffrey Baratheon.”

“I didn’t know that,” she says.

“History forgot about him,” Jon answers and shakes his head, “He beat her, he humiliated her. Sansa’s life after her father’s execution was not easy.” He sighs, “She was forced into a marriage twice. First to Tyrion Lannister and then to Harrold Hardyng, before finally breaking free of her chains and escaping the men that imprisoned her. Her brother Robb died in the Red Wedding, along with their mother. Her sister Arya was still missing, presumed dead. She had no family. No one but Jon Snow shared her blood in the entire continent."

"What about Rickon and Brandon?" Sansa asks, "They were still alive, right?"

"No one knew that," he murmurs, "People still thought that Eddard Stark's youngest sons had been killed by Theon Greyjoy." Jon looks at her with so much love and devotion that she almost cries, "They were never close and yet she rode to him. Letters by Lord Eddard to King Robert show that Sansa was rather cruel to her half-brother, influenced by her mother, I'm sure. Why would she ride to a member of the Night's Watch, a boy she was never close to, so as to escape her abuser? I can't understand that."

"She trusted him," Sansa says, "Despite everything, she trusted him. She knew he'd keep her safe."

"Yes," Jon answers turning away from her, "That has to be it. And he must have loved her very much."

"Why would you say that?" she asks.

"He went to war for her. Jon had been betrayed by his men, he was depressed, tired of fighting, and yet he faced Ramsay Bolton for Sansa. They won back Winterfell, liberated the North. And that was all for her." He buries his face in his hand, hiding his features, "The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. When Sansa became queen, she had to have an heir. A son to carry on the Stark name and rule after her. She could hardly become a virgin queen." His eyes darken and a twisted expression takes his features, "A son would protect her. It would show that the gods approved her reign. Northern men would fight to have the chance to be her husband and there were rumors of a war brewing to force her into marriage. A son could stop that all from happening."

"And you think Jon Snow laid with her to protect her?" Sansa asks, slightly confused. Could it be?

"In a way. Or maybe he loved her. They weren't really siblings, but cousins."

"Wylla thinks that he fathered all of the children," Sansa starts, "Not just Athos."

"An heir and a spare. Athos and Rodrik," he explains, shaking his head.

"What about Eddara?" Sansa asks, "After years of suffering just for being a girl, it would hardly make sense for her to want a daughter."

"Eddara…" Jon whispers.

Her birth doesn't make sense, Sansa realizes, unless…

"They loved each other," she says, "She wanted those children because they were a symbol of their love. Even if they couldn't be together, even if he had to live at the Wall, his sons and daughter would stay with her."

"They loved each other," Jon murmurs, sadly, "They loved each other."

Her husband stands up and walks to his desk, turning his back to her, and Sansa frowns, "What are you doing?"

"I have to make some calls," he answers and that is the end of the subject.

* * *

“You look handsome,” Daenerys said, entering the room with firm footsteps.

Jon turned around and shock marred his beautiful face, covering his features in an awful dance. His brown locks were brushed back, though not long enough to be tied into a bun, the hairdresser managed to make them work by permanently keeping them in place with, maybe gel? Dany couldn’t tell by just looking. She’d have to touch them and oh, how much she wanted that. There was nothing more that Dany desired than to caress his soft tresses with her fingers, hearing him fall apart underneath her.

And he did look handsome. She’d never lie about something like that. His beard was trimmed neatly and his skin glowed underneath the expensive three-piece black suit that he wore. She knew he could never afford something like that, especially with his history professor’s salary, so the bride’s family must have taken care of that and, if the decorations that she managed to take a peak while walking in were any clue, the Starks had taken care of everything. 

 _Is that why he’s marrying her?_ Dany asked to herself, _Because of her money?_

No. Jon would never do that. He’s too good. And besides, if he truly wanted money, he could have just asked her brother. Marrying someone for their wealth just seems too much work when there is a billionaire inheritance waiting for you to reconcile with your father.

And yet, Daenerys almost hoped that was the reason. It would make everything less painful, though not entirely erase her ache. 

He was getting married. Him. Jon Snow. _Her_ Jon. And to that wolf bitch, of all. Daenerys had never met the blushing bride, but she already hated her with all of her strength for stealing Jaehaerys away from her.

“Dany,” Jon breathed, surprised, “What are you doing here?”

Daenerys smiled, tightly. Her entire skin felt wrong on her as if someone had removed it and then put it back on the wrong side. She could feel her heart on her throat, tying it around and stopping the air from going to her lungs. She wanted to vomit, to scream and to die; all at once.

“I came for your wedding,” she answered, “Isn’t that obvious? I’m your family.”

He scoffed and a smile full of scorn took his pretty pink lips.

“You haven’t been my family for a very long time, Dany,” Jon said and he might as well have stabbed her in the hear with a dagger. It would certainly have the same effect.

“You say that,” she starts, completing unsure of what she will say, “And yet, here I am. Still being your aunt. Still bearing your name. Our blood runs the same, Jon.” She licked her lips, “You can’t change the truth. You’re a Targaryen and so am I.”

“I’m not a Targaryen,” Jon said.

“You are.” She smiled, “She can’t change that, my love. She can never change who you truly are. You are Jaehaerys Targaryen and there is nothing that Sansa Stark can do about it.”

Jon took a step to her and his face changed in the split of a second, going from scornful and mocking to angry and full of hate. Daenerys felt the need to take a step back, she had never seen him look like that, and certainly not to her, but she stayed put. She was a Targaryen and dragons do not cower in fear.

“Do. Not. Say. Her. Name,” he warned, punctuating every word, “Daenerys, you haven’t been invited and you are not welcome here. Leave, before I make you leave.”

Dany took a step back, shocked. He wouldn’t dare… would he? She thought a second, words racing through her mind, as she tried to come to a decision.

No. He wouldn’t dare to ruin Sansa’s special big day.

She breathed deeply, recomposing herself, before whispering:

“I just don’t understand.” She paused, “What does she have… that I don’t?”

Dany meant for it to sound like a demand. She wanted to know, she neededto know, and yet her voice failed herself, coming out like a sob, a half-mourning plea, full of grief. Dany could hear the tears in her words, and taste them in her mouth. She was sad, extremely sad.

Daenerys was losing something that was already hers and it wasn’t fair.

“I don’t know, Dany,” Jon said, exasperated, “Because I love her. Because she makes me feel as if my days are not long enough to spend with her. Because she makes me laugh. Because she convinced me to go to therapy. Because she’s not my aunt.” He sighed, and then looked down, before looking up again, “You can choose any of those reasons.”

Dany felt close to crying now. Her eyes watered up and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep them from spilling.

“It’s not fair,” she said, giving a room to the voice inside her head, whispering in her ear, “She stole you from me. You were supposed to be mine.”

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Jon asked angrily.

"Targaryens married within the family. That was our way," she whispered, looking down as if she were a child who had just disobeyed her father, "Aegon would have married Rhaenys and I would have been given to you. That is if the law hadn't prohibited it."

"The law prohibited it for a reason," he said, angrier, as if that was possible, "And even if it didn't, I wouldn't marry you. That's not the way of my people, of the Free Folk." He took a deep breath, as if remembering who he was talking to, and sighed, "I'm sorry if that breaks your heart, but I'm not in love with you, Dany, and I would never marry you."

Those words opened the dam in her heart and her tears flowed freely down her cheeks, her sobs shaking her shoulders. Dany pressed her hand against her face, trying to stop the tears, or perhaps loosely thinking that her own touch would be enough to calm her down. She sobbed, feeling as if he had taken out her heart with his bare hands, reaching inside her ribcage and ripping it out.

Jon looked lost. He could never exactly deal with a crying woman and Dany remembered scoffing at that. He'd been raised by a woman, for gods' sake. Though free women weren't exactly similar to their south-of-the-Wall counterparts.

He took a step and, unsure of what to do, tapped her shoulder awkwardly, whispering something she couldn't quite hear.

"Please, don't do this," she whispered, holding his shoulders with her hands and looking deeply into his eyes, "Please, Jon. I… I am begging you. Please don't marry her."

"I'm sorry," Jon said and truly sounded sorry, "But I love her, Dany."

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to press her lips against him and make him choose her. _Pick me,_ she wanted to say, _please, pick me. I love you. I love you. I love you a thousand times more than her._ And Dany might have done all of that if the door hadn’t opened at precisely the wrong moment and a redheaded man, with broad shoulders and a smiling face, walked in, his arms opened.

When he saw her though, trapped in Jon’s arms, the smile melted away from his face and an angry expression took its place.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, his voice tense and strained.

“No,” Jon answered, “Robb, let me introduce you to my aunt. This is Daenerys Targaryen.”

Robb Stark’s expression didn’t change as he walked towards Daenerys. He was wearing an equally expensive dark suit, though, unlike Jon, he looked comfortable in it. There was a man who spent his entire life preparing himself for the best, treated with love and affection, even adoration, and no expenses spared. Robb Stark had never known difficulties.

He stepped forward and extended his hand for her to shake.

“I’m pleased to meet you, miss Targaryen,” he said, but the tone in his voice showed otherwise.

“Pleased to meet you too,” Daenerys answered. She wiped her tears away, “I’m sorry. I am terribly late.” She sighed and started walking towards the door, “I must go.”

Robb got there before her, though, and cocked his head slightly to the left, looking almost like a confused puppy.

“Won’t you stay for the ceremony?” he asked, genuinely confused.

Dany blinked, surprised by his question.

“I’m sorry, mister Stark, but there must have been a misunderstanding between us,” she said, “I haven’t been invited to the ceremony. Neither have I to the reception. Have a good day.”

And with that, Daenerys left the room.

* * *

He pushes her hands down, forcing them against the bed, and Sansa groans, biting the pillow in a feeble attempt at muffling her moans. Jon kisses her neck, his chest against her back, and bends her leg slightly.

"Oh," she whispers when he hits a particular spot inside her, "Jon, _please_ … Gods..."

Her peaks hit her in waves; bigger and bigger with each passing second and she moans louder than intended. Jon bites her shoulder and licks her skin, tasting the sweat and soothing the sting. Sansa idly wonders if it will leave a mark, and a half of her hopes it will, a reddish spot against her pale body, a memory of his touch.

He kisses her ears and groans, surrendering to the pleasure. Jon comes with his hand on her clit, nosing her hair.

They stay together for a full minute, just enjoying the sensation of being connected in the most intimate of ways, before her second alarm rings, breaking the careful glass around them, forcing them back into reality.

"Fuck," Jon says as he removes himself from her, "Here we go again."

He takes the condom out, careful not to spill, and ties a knot around it. Sansa doesn't see when her husband throws the protection in the bin, but she can hear it and the sound is irritating on her ears.

She pulls the blankets to her chin level, willing her shivering body to warm up. Without his warmth nearby, Sansa is forced to rely on her own body heat, as if she is a husbandless peasant.

Jon stretches his body, groaning in pleasure as the sun shines through the window, and scratches the side of his tummy. With the passing months since the babies came home, he has had little time to take care of his muscular physique. Though he still carries weight (five babies with over five pounds each is no joke), his abs are gone and a little pouch has appeared, giving Jon the ghost of a dad bod. Sansa can't say she minds; in fact, she really likes it.

"Do you want to shower first," he starts and Sansa blinks her eyes open, looking at her husband, "Or shall I?"

"You shall," Sansa answers, kicking off the covers. The weight of it is almost making her fall asleep again, plus their coziness. Gods, she is so tired. Having five babies is very exhausting.

She stretches her own body, feeling the tense muscles in her back slowly relax, and stands up, her feet hitting the cold wooden floor of the master bedroom in her family’s townhouse. As Jon walks to the bathroom, she follows him, walking in her naked state to the toilet. It’s so cold.

Despite being summer, temperatures have been dropping more and more each passing day. It seems as if she will freeze to death, from both the inside and the outside, even though it’s not possible. She pees and then returns to the bedroom, every hair on her body standing up in a feeble attempt to retain some time of warmth.

Sansa puts on a new fresh pair of underwear and a breastfeeding baby-blue bra. Jon turns the shower on as she slips inside a pair of black wool tights, her winter pants and puts on a long-sleeved cotton shirt. She brushes her teeth as quickly as possible, though still carefully and thorough.

Jon finishes his shower and dresses himself for work; a blue suit with a dark tie. He holds the black fabric with his hands, sighing.

“I’m hopeless,” he says, “Can you help me?”

Sansa smiles, softly, and walks to him. Despite using ties on a daily basis, Jon still struggles with all complicated knots. It is a rather cute aspect of her personality, especially since he’s forced to turn to her for help, and Sansa will never complain when it affords her an opportunity to participate in a rather common family tradition.

Her grandmother helped her grandfather with his bowties; her mother still helps her father with his own ties and, when she was as young as seven, Sansa had Catelyn teach her the various knots in existence, dreaming about her own future husband.

“There,” Sansa says, caressing the soft fabric of his dress shirt, “Perfect.”

Jon smiles, gray eyes twinkling and she wonders when did she get such luck to be married to such a wonderful man. She presses her lips against his as softly as she can. Sansa is maybe an inch or two taller than Jon, but his dress shoes rise him to her exact height, perfect for spontaneous kisses.

"I want you to get a vasectomy," she says, licking her lips and circling his neck with her arms.

Jon makes a face, "Sexy," he answers "Is vasectomy a new code for fucking? Because if it is, we can do one right now."

Sansa sighs and lets go of him. He could be such a child when he wanted to.

“I’m serious,” Sansa says, “I don’t want to have a sixth child and neither do I want to continue using condoms for the rest of our lives.” She takes a deep breath, “We both know it would take years before I’m even considered to have my tubes tied. Please, do this for me, for us, for our family.”

Jon sighs as well, dropping his head back.

“Fine,” he says, “I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to get the old snip-snip. For you, at least.”

Sansa smiles and then kisses Jon. She’s slightly taller than him, bending her head ever so gently to press her lips against his, before separating, leaning their foreheads together. “Thanks.”

Jon nods, kissing her back, and her smile grows even wider. His arms circle her waist and he hugs her tight as if he is afraid that she will run away if he lets go. How could he believe that, Sansa thinks, when her entire life, she has been running to him? 

“It just feels weird,” he starts, unsure, his cheek pressed to hers, “After five years of battling infertility, now you want me to truly hinder our ability to have children. It feels like we’re doing something wrong, perhaps.”

“I understand,” Sansa says, “But now we have five beautiful children and they have enough siblings to fight for their parents’ attention. Let’s not make the competition even tighter.”

"You're right," Jon murmurs, letting go of her, "As always, you're right."

Sansa smiles and she raises her hand, stroking Jon’s cheek, feeling the coarse hairs of his beard against her skin. He smiles back, leaning his head against his touch. Jon kisses her palm and the inside of her wrist. His eyes are soft and gentle.

She can’t remember the last time they had a fight, a true fight. Ugly and demanding, where they both hurt each other and said things that they regret. That is not their way, Sansa believes. Jon helped her realize that a discussion is not supposed to be her versus him, but them versus a problem.

Perhaps that is why they managed to survive nine years of marriage, and eleven years of a relationship. They did it all together.

“Even if I change my mind, there is still a sample of your… seed.” She tries not to laugh, “At the clinic in King’s Landing where we performed the IVF. Enough for another child, if five are not enough.”

“Good,” Jon murmurs, “Let’s wake up the babies.”

Sansa licks her lips, “Let’s.”

She walks to the girls’ nursery, while Jon goes for the boys’. Their door is at the of the corridor and Ghost sleeps as close as he can, as Sansa locks it at night to stop the dogs from disturbing the kids during the night. He moves as she gets closer, blinking his red eyes open, and yawns, standing up on his white paws.

Sansa unlocks the door and steps inside, Ghost following her, and he must know that they are sleeping, because she has never seen him being so careful, closely watching his footsteps to prevent any sound that might disturb the babies.

Amma’s crib is the closest to the door, pressed against a red wall, and Sansa walks there first. Her little girl is safely asleep, chubby white hands grabbing the handkerchief that Lyanna had embroidered. Each day, her hair gets more and more auburn, getting more similar to Sansa’s own locks, curling around her round face.

“Good morning,” Sansa whispers, sliding her hand behind Amma’s head and she opens her eyes, as gray and wide as their father’s. Though she looks like Sansa, her eyes are all Jon, “Did you sleep well?”

The quints had been home for six months, gaining weight and growing as children should, though with three months of delayed development, something to be expected. They are preemies, after all, born at just six months of pregnancy.

Amma was the first to start smiling, and then Brandon, with Torrhen finishing that cycle. Mya sat first, followed by Torrhen and Alys. With another six months, they would start talking and crawling, hopefully, and then a few more weeks for walking. Surprising everyone, the quints followed every prediction made by the most hopeful doctors and more.

 _They will not smile, they will not crawl, they will not walk,_ she could hear the pediatrician’s voice in her ear, mean and discouraging, _If you carry all five children, you will condemn them to a life in a bed._

He was wrong. Sansa would prove him wrong. She made the right decision in carrying all of them. For her, selective reduction was not an option for them.

Amma smiles, leaning her head against Sansa’s shoulder, burying her head in her hair, and giggles. She is so happy, with always a smile on her pretty face.

Sansa walks to the changing station and trades Amma’s wet diaper for a dry one. She is wearing her white pajamas, with rainbow polka dots all around them, but she is quick to realize that it’s wet around her legs. From sweat or urine, Sansa couldn’t tell, though it mattered very little the origin.

“What should we wear today, sweet girl?” she asks and Amma’s smile grows wider. A white hard rock peeks out from her gums. A tooth, Sansa realizes in excitement. “Look at you. That explains why you were so fussy for the past week.”

Holding Amma against her hip, her daughter wearing only her diaper, Sansa opens their wardrobe. Dresses, onesies, shirts, pants. Some she bought, others she gained. Bright and happy colors for her babies.

Growing up, Sansa loved fashion and she always wanted to look her very best. Though this hardly changed since her teenage years, it’s harder to look good when you have five babies spitting and vomiting on you 24/7. Now, Sansa tried to focus on all of her fashion knowledge in the babies’ clothes, choosing the cutest and most adorable for them. Her desire for pretty outfits seems to have shifted for her children.

She picks a pink and white dress, with dots and arrows all around it. There are three versions of them, one for each Snow girl. Though some might disagree, in Sansa's opinion, there is nothing cuter than twins wearing matching clothes. Though not identical, Mya followed her sisters’ lead.

“Pretty girl,” Sansa whispers, “My pretty girl.”

Sansa puts Amma back into her crib, and she looks almost ready to cry, before Ghost trots to her, rising on his hind paws. She giggles and sticks her hand between the wooden sticks keeping her safe and pats Ghost on the head, grabbing fistfuls of his white fur.

She walks to Mya’s cot, standing against a purple-tinted wall, and tries to prepare her heart for another full day alone with the quints.

It's hard. Sansa can't describe it any other way. Taking care of all five babies by herself is certainly a full-time job and she knows that Jon has it hard too, he works a lot to put on their table and clothes on her children's back, but still. Mothers are extremely underrated. That is known.

Mya is still asleep when Sansa picks her up and she only awakes when her diaper is changed, opening her baby blue eyes for the world.

"Good morning, beautiful," says Sansa, "Did you sleep well?"

Mya stares at her in confusion, the dust of sleep still covering her eyes, and yawns, trying to grab a cotton ball from the changing station. Her chubby little fingers take the white ball between them, but Sansa is quicker, finishing the changing before any damage can be done. She dresses the girl quickly, pushing the dress over her head.

"Here," Sansa says, picking Mya up and walking to Amma's cot, "Stay with your sister for a little while."

Amma giggles when Mya sits by her side, holding a plush wolf with her hands. They grunt and scream at each other, too young to actually talk, but still desiring to communicate with one another.

"My pretty girls," Sansa murmurs and they look up to her. Though not identical, Amma and Mya still had the same age, being part of the same quintuplets set, and the same parents; at first glance, they didn't look like sisters because of their coloring, but Sansa could see their similarities. They had the same small hands and long legs, a telling sign that they'd be very tall once they grew. However, it is easier to see the differences, only because they are so contrasting. While Amma had taken after the Tully side of Sansa's family, with red hair and high cheekbones, Mya looked a lot like Lyanna Snow. She had dark brown hair and a long face hidden by the baby fat in her cheeks. Only their eyes had been switched, with Amma gaining Jon's gray eyes and Mya inheriting her mother's blue.

Sansa leaves them there, talking between each other in their baby language, and walks towards the yellow wall. When she reaches the crib there, Alys is already wake, exploring her surrounds with her wandering hands. Her gray eyes see Sansa and a gummy smile opens on her pale face. Alys loves her mother.

"Hello, sweet girl," Sansa says, picking her up, "Good morning."

Alys hums, grabbing a strand of Sansa's hair and putting in her mouth, happily chewing the red locks.

Jon had started calling her, A.J., using her initials from her first and middle name. Sansa hates that nickname. It is not ladylike and she feels as if her baby girl is being called something you’d call a truck driver or a football player. To her, A.J. brings to memory sweat, disgust and sexism.

However, she couldn’t stop her husband from doing that, no matter how much she tried. Sansa’s arguments had ceased after a fateful day of discussing the name with her husband when she tried to bring her other kids to light.

"A.J?" Sansa had said, "If you're going to call her that, we might have to make it a thing for each of our children. A.J., M.J, T.J, B.J..." Sansa made a face, "Maybe not."

After that, it was easy for Jon to declare his victory and, as if to scrub it in her face, her entire family had started calling Alys, A.J.

She is just laying the baby on top of the changing station when Jon walks in, calling after her, "Hey, babe?"

Sansa takes Alys' pajamas off. It isn't as wet as Amma's or dry as Mya's. It is sort of stuck in the middle ground.

"Yes?" she answers, not looking up.

"I'm worried about Torr," Jon says, his voice soft and almost sad.

Sansa freezes in her place and it takes a second before she is able to move, raising her eyes and turning to her husband. She places a hand on top of Alys to stop her from rolling out of the station.

Her husband is holding her son, the youngest of the boy twins. Torrhen is wearing a blue onesie and black pants with sharks embroidered on it. His hair is wild from the bed and he has an imprint on his face; he must have slept against the crib's walls again.

Her brain goes into momma wolf mode. Is he sick? Does he have a fever? Did he fall? He isn't crying, so there are no injuries. What is it, pray tell?

"What's wrong?" Sansa asks, taking a deep breath and changing Alys' diaper. She quickly dresses her daughter and places her in Amma's cot along with her sister, "Is he alright?"

"I think so," Jon says, "But I was playing with him and Brandon in their room and… well, you should see it for yourself."

He reaches for something behind him with his free hand and Sansa sees him fish out a pen from his back pocket.

Jon holds the pen in front of Torrhen and her baby, her sweet baby boy, smiles with such a joy and innocence before he throws his chest forward to try and hold it. He extends his tiny little hand forward and Sansa sees it all in slow motion.

Torrhen's fingers don't take the pen away from his father. Instead, they hit the air at the left side of the object, too far for it to be a simple accident.

* * *

_Eddara of House Stark (314 A.C - 351 A.C) was a princess of Winterfell and the only daughter of Queen Sansa, the ruling monarch at the North. Unlike her brothers, Eddara was born with gold-silver hair and light violet eyes, a color not common to either the North or Sansa Stark’s lineage (her entire paternal family was northern, with just her mother being a southern Tully), with some claiming that she was, due to their apparent similarities, Daenerys Targaryen come again._

_Eddara was born during winter, leading some to call her Winter Child, and she was the first girl to be born in the House Stark since her aunt Arya’s birth, twenty-five years prior. Though not as tomboy as her, Eddara grew up to be as competitive as her brother. Alys Karstark, a close friend of Sansa and a member of the queen's council, wrote a letter to her brother when she was eight years old, saying_ "The little princess is smart and wilful. She likes dresses and dolls but will punch a brother in the nose if they make fun of her. Our queen is very proud of her."

 _Sansa Stark spent her childhood and adolescence years struggling to survive after the demise of her family and so she became extremely protective of her children. Eddara, as the youngest and only girl, was reportedly even more sheltered by her mother who refused to be parted with the girl. In 322, the dornish ambassador called seven-year-old Eddara_ "her mother's pale shadow."

_Queen Sansa died when Eddara was just sixteen years old, after days complaining of intense stomach aches and nausea. Though contemporaries believed she was poisoned, modern historians believe appendicitis had been the true culprit. With Sansa's death, Eddara's elder brother, Athos, became the king. Like his mother, Athos was wary of betrothing his sister, especially after their brother joined the Night's Watch. For ten years, she served her brother loyally, until the arrival of the Targaryens._

_At the age of twenty-six, Eddara was married to Aegon IV in a joint ceremony with her brother who was marrying Aegon's sister, Jaehaera. Unlike her brother, the marriage between Eddara and Aegon was a not happy one, as she reportedly had been hoping to marry Willem Manderly._

_Eddara would have five surviving children with her husband, including his heir and successor, Jaehaerys III. The current Targaryen line is a direct descendant of her and her husband._

_A devoted and loving mother, Eddara encouraged her children to confide in her and gave them nicknames, even going so far as to nurse them herself during their illnesses. She'd later die at the age of thirty-seven giving birth to her sixth and final child, Gael, who died hours after her mother._

_Like other royal properties south of the Neck, her grave was destroyed during the Reign of Terror in 797 A.C. and her remains have been lost ever since._

* * *

Missandei leans forward, picking a glass full of a dark carbonated liquid from the tray, and leans back, sipping on the diet cola with a quiet calmness. Grey Worm's hand is on her thigh, the glistening golden wedding band on his ring finger, and he smiles happily. Her friends are happy together, Daenerys notices, very happy.

Missandei's golden eyes shine in her direction and Dany smiles at her, before turning her head back to the window. It's night time and their private jet soared through the skies of Westeros, taking her home after a long trip in Braavos.

She is tired. Physically and mentally tired, her whole body and mind aching after so many hours stuck inside an airplane or a jet, zooming over the world. Three days in Lys, and then another two days at Volantis, before finally finishing her tour with a stop in the Secret City. All she wants is to go home. She misses her bed, her tub. She misses everything.

Dany picks up her phone and opens her Twitter. She has received over a hundred DMs since her last check only ten minutes ago, with dozens of fans, smaller influencers, and brands wanting to see her words on their private screens. She sends a text to her assistant, telling the foolish woman to deal with them all.

Daenerys quickly types a new tweet: _thank you so much for the warm welcome I’ve received in Essos. I'll never forget it. xoxoxo._

She posts the tweet and locks her phone, placing it on the tray.

Dany can't stop thinking about her talk with Rhaegar earlier that week, the ugly words he threw at her, demanding. That's her brother for you. Always wanting more and more and more.

"I will be visiting the quints later this semester," he had said, nursing from a bottle of whiskey without a care in the world, "I have asked Anya to buy them expensive gifts. Toys, clothes, that sort of thing. I must show myself to be a good and generous grandfather."

Dany remembered sitting in his office, trembling underneath his gaze like a child that had misbehaved, waiting for her brother's punishment.

"Why?" she asked.

Rhaegar rolled his eyes, "I must prevent Jaehaerys from completely ruining them."

Daenerys sighed. She was angry, fire licking inside her veins, her blood heating almost to a boiling point. Though it had nothing to do with Jon or his wolf bitch, the simple mention of their dirty litter made her want to scream.

"I don't see why you care about them," Dany replied, "They are not true Targaryens, they aren't dragons."

Rhaegar's eyes burned with a violet flame. A part of Daenerys wanted to shrink beneath his gaze and apologize for her insolence, but she stood her ground, returning his angry stare.

"Yes, dear sister, they are not true Targaryens," he said, baring his teeth and, were she any younger, she'd have that he was a second away from breathing fire and burning her alive, "And yet they are Targaryens all the same. Five children, that is what the next generation of our family has. Jon's heirs are the only ones who carry our blood inside their veins, no matter how tainted they have been with northern dirt." His nostrils flared and he grunted like a bull, standing up, "Aegon is dead, Rhaenys is a junkie and you refuse anyone who is not my son. If it weren't for Jon, our family would die out with us and, because of that, I care enough to foster a good relationship with them." He sighed, "Fire and Blood. That is how our ancient house came into power and that is how we maintain it. With children and descendants."

He looked out the window, as if the simple sight of her made his blood boil, and took a sip of his drink.

"You've failed me, Daenerys," he said, "If you had given me a son as you were meant to, I wouldn't have to care about Jon's children. It's because of you that I have to invite Sansa Stark's brood into our midst."

 _No,_ Daenerys thought and the simple idea of it all being her fault brings her back to reality, laying back on an airplane seat.

Missandei and Grey Worm are whispering amongst themselves, but Dany doesn't particularly care about their business and so she says:

"Are you happy being a mother?" She is looking at the woman.

Missandei blinks her golden eyes and smiles.

"Yes, Dany, of course," she answers, "Being a mother is my greatest joy in life."

Grey Worm is infertile and so, they had adopted two orphan girls from Missandei's homeland in Naath. Two and four at the time, they quickly adapted to calling them, _mommy_ and _daddy_. Daenerys has never seen her friends happier than when they are with their daughters.

"Why?" Grey Worm asks, curious.

Dany sighs and turns back to the window, "I've been thinking about having a baby."

Missandei and Grey Worm, bless their hearts, attempted to mask their shock and failing miserably at it. Their eyes widened and their chins dropped in surprise, mouths forming a perfect O.

Missandei is the first to compose herself, "Really?" she asks, "Have you been thinking of adoption? I can give you the number of our agency if you'd like."

"No," Dany murmurs, "I don't want someone else's baby. I want my own."

Her friend's eyes water a little, offended by Daenerys' refusal, and Grey Worm takes over, more emotionally closed than his wife.

"Do you have a…" he hesitates, "A father available?"

Daenerys giggles, trying to dissipate the tension in the jet, but it does little to remedy the situation.

"In a way," she says, "I'm planning on using a sperm donor. In fact," she smiles wickedly, "I know a perfect clinic in King's Landing for it."

 _Don't worry, brother,_ she says to herself, thinking about Rhaegar and Jon's sweet smile, _I will give you a true Targaryen heir._

* * *

Sansa holds the phone against her ear, "I'd like to make an appointment for Torrhen Snow, with the ophthalmologist please."

Jon rocks Amma next to her while feeding Mya a bottle with his other hand. Brandon and Alys are scattered on the floor, out of control, rolling and giggling to themselves. Sansa doesn't have it in herself to stop them.

Torrhen, perched on her hip, babbles something, taking hold of Sansa's star necklace. His fingers brush against her collarbone, and he squints, confused and trying to focus his vision, before finally grabbing the jewelry.

 _"How old is he?_ " the receptionist of the local clinic asks, her voice low and nasally.

"Nine months," Sansa says, hugging Torrhen closer, and she can her the responder typing her answers in a computer, quick and efficiently. She kisses his temple and he smiles, trying to bring the necklace to his mouth, though the cord is too short to allow such a thing.

_"What's his middle name?"_

"Jonsson," Sansa murmurs and Jon puts Amma down.

_"Can you spell that please?"_

"J-O-N-S-S-O-N," Sansa answers and, because she felt the need to explain, "It's a patronym."

Free Folk have no need for last names. In their culture, a man holds no property and elections happen through voice and talk. Isolated tribes take precautions to not have communications with First Men and Andals, including the exclusion of national politics. Everyone knows everyone in their communities and so, it only matters who is your father or mother.

Before leaving her people behind to protest for the wellness of the environment and the rights of original settlers, Sansa's goodmother was called Lyanna Rickardsdatter. She chose the name Snow for herself after a local legend that she was descended from a northern bastard that took the black and fled north of the Wall to be with his wildlings lover and their sons. When Jon fled Rhaegar, he chose the same name and, out of love for her husband and a respect for her goodmother, Sansa took it as well. Their children are the first true Snows born from that line in centuries, even after Jon insisted to have their patronym middle names, the same way he did with himself.

 _"Alright, we have two open slots,"_ the woman answers, " _Is one p.m. a good time?"_

"Yes, it is," Sansa says, "Thank you so much."

She finishes the call and locks her cellphone, placing it in the counter next to her. They are in the kitchen and pots and pans have been laid out on the ground, distracting the babies from the adult talk over them. Amma, sitting up, slaps a brown pot while Brandon looks around, babbling to himself. Sansa wants to pick them out of the cold floor and place them somewhere sterilized and warm, but her heart beats fast inside her chest and she can't think straight.

"I'll call the university," he says and the implications of it hit Sansa before his words can even leave his mouth, "I'll stay here with the four, while you take him to the doctor."

"No," Sansa answers, "Go to work. I'll handle this."

"Sansa," he starts and he must see the resolve in her eyes, there is no other explanation to the way his mouth close and his eyes shut, "Very well. How will you handle them all at the doctor's office?"

His voice is angry and mocking, almost like she is a child, and Sansa takes a deep breath.

"I won't. I'll leave the four here," she says and quickly adds once she sees the look on his face, "My mother gave me the number of a babysitter. She insisted on it, said she'd pay her hours so I wouldn't have to worry about it. I'm gonna call her today."

Jon seems about to refuse or contest her decision, but Sansa continues talking, "Don't fret, love. The worst that could happen is the doctor saying he needs glasses. There's nothing wrong with that." She doesn't know if she is saying that to reassure him or herself. Sansa supposes it hardly matters.

"Ok," Jon says, "Ok. I'll go to work, but call me with updates as soon as you leave the clinic."

He looks at her with a calculated calmness and Sansa smiles, tightly.

"Very well," she says and that is it.

* * *

 **_From:_ ** [ **_womensclinic@queenalysannehealth.com_ ** ](mailto:womensclinic@queenalysannehealth.com)

**_To:_ ** [ **_daeneryst@gmail.com_ ** ](mailto:daeneryst@gmail.com)

**_Subject: Your latest request._ **

_Dear Mrs. Snow,_

_We appreciate you choosing us again for another round of fertilization, but we are upset to hear that your first round has not worked. Please, accept our condolences._

_Your previous round was through IVF where we implanted three two-day-old embryos in your womb, as you might recall, but you have declared your intention to have an IUI (Intrauterine insemination). We have forwarded the pdf of a document explaining this process so you might be more prepared for your procedure this Friday. We will be using your husband's sperm, so there is nothing to worry about in that area._

_If this batch is successful, we kindly ask you to send us a picture of your child(ren) as a way to celebrate a new life created in our facilities._

_Sincerely,_

_Staff of the Fertility Wing of the Women's Clinic of King's Landing._

* * *

Torrhen had been her smallest at birth, her weakest. His entire stay at the NICU had been anxiety-inducing for Sansa. It seemed that out of all the things that could wrong, only Torrhen had problems. His lung collapsed when he was just two weeks old, he rejected formula and could only feed from her own breast milk, he caught an infection and stayed isolated for over a month, away from his brother and sisters. She often wondered if he dreamed about her if he missed his mommy.

He is only nine months. He is her baby, hers and hers alone.

Sansa hopes that it's only a vision problem, that it's not a sign of something wrong with his brain or something worse. Glasses are so simple compared to surgeries or chemotherapy.

Torrhen sucks on her bracelet as they wait for the doctor to enter the office. Sansa taps her foot on the ground, too anxious to function in any other way, and tries not to freak out.

Torrhen looks at her. He has wide gray eyes and a long stern face. He reminds her of Bran, somehow. Her little brother. Innocent and extraordinarily smart. Bran had been the light of their lives until his accident took the movement on his legs. Sansa thought she had lost her brother forever before Jojen Reed appeared and brought joy back to her brother.

"I love you," she says, kissing Torrhen's chubby cheeks, "I love you with all my heart."

He babbles at her and his tongue licks the inside of her wrist. Torr makes a face, certainly tasting the perfume that she sprays there every day, and she laughs. Her heart loosens a little bit and she breathes with more ease.

The door opens and a man enters, holding a silver chart on his hands. He is taller than her, something rare of its own, and his white hair is thinning on his head. He's old, maybe her father's age, and there is a tag on his chest that says _Dr. Karstark._

"Hello, Mrs. Snow," he says and he looks at her son, a wide smile taking his face, "Hi, little guy. What's bringing you here today?"

Doctor Karstark sits in a chair with wheels, dragging himself to her. He puts his chart on the desk, turning his complete focus to her.

"It's hard to explain," she murmurs, "Every time he tries to grab something, his hand just falls to the side of it. I thought it would improve with age, but it hasn't."

Karstark nods, "His chart says that he's nine months old, but he's small. Is there a problem there?"

"He's premature," Sansa answers, "He was born at just twenty-seven weeks of pregnancy, so development-wise, he's six months old."

"Really? Mind if I ask why?"

Sansa smiles. That is really hard to explain, "He's part of a quintuplet set. I just couldn't sustain the pregnancy any longer and had an emergency c-section."

Doctor Karstark's blue eyes widen, but he quickly composes himself. Sansa can almost hear the machinery inside his head turning, trying to make sense of this situation.

"Is there any other baby in this set that have shown similar problems?" he asks, careful.

"No." Sansa shakes her head, "They are all fine. Grabbing, pointing. Everything. It's just him."

Doctor Karstark nods, "Must be a delay or a vision problem. It's good that you brought him."

Sansa nods. She feels reassured, almost calm.

"Alright," doctor Karstark murmurs and takes a pen out of his breast pocket, holding it in front of her son. With his free hand, he picks up a clear magnifying lens and places it near his eyes, changing it from left to right every second, "Torrhen, look here. Look here, boy."

He turns off the light and holds a toy with glittering lights, taking a small flashlight to watch his eyes.

"Does he squint?"

"Sometimes," Sansa murmurs, "Is that bad?"

Doctor Karstark doesn't answer. Instead, he puts his instruments back on his desk and turns on the lights. Sansa squints, her eyes had gotten used to the darkness, and blinks.

"In a way," doctor Karstark says, "I think he has astigmatism on both eyes, though the right is worse. It's blurring his vision, which explains his difficulty in focusing and grabbing things. It's good that we caught this early because if it went any longer, it might have increased his difficulty to crawl and then walk."

Sansa nods, hugging Torrhen closer to her chest, and he leans back at her, letting out the sweetest baby sigh. His brother, though identical, was completely different in terms of personality. Brandon would already be struggling against her arms, upset at her human restraints.

"So what should we do about this?" she asks, completely nervous about his answer.

"At this stage." He twists his mouth, "I think glasses are the solution."

Sansa lets out a breath that she didn't know she was holding.

"Glasses?" she repeats and almost laughs out loud.

"Yes," he answers, "He's too young to use a conventional one, so it's better for one of those with bands that go around the head. I'll write you a prescription and maybe within a month, you can have those glasses in hand." Karstark pauses, "With that, hopefully, is vision will be fixed and he can develop like any other child his age, following his siblings along."

 

Sansa lets out another breath of relief. This is wonderful.

 

***

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of the second part. The third and final part will be coming soon.
> 
> I will be doing a time jump because let's be honest, two-year-olds are more interesting than nine months old.
> 
> Torrhen's eye appointment is not accurate. I just wanted to get it done with this so that I could post it. Although I have astigmatism as well, I don't wear glasses (the doctor said i have no need of them, go figure), so I don't actually know how they work and how you get them. Also how long they take to be done. I tried to search as much as I could, alas we can't do everything.


End file.
